BEHIND    THE    FOOTLIGHTS 


BY    THE    SAME   AUTHOR. 


MEXICO  AS  I  SAW  IT.     Third  Edition. 
THROUGH  FINLAND  IN  CARTS.     Third  Edition. 
A  WINTER  JAUNT  TO  NORWAY.    Second  Edition. 

THE  OBERAMMERGAU  PASSION  PLAY. 

Out  of  print. 

DANISH  VERSUS  ENGLISH  BUTTER  MAKING. 

Reprint  from  "  Fortnightly." 

WILTON,  Q.C.     Second  Edition. 

A  GIRL'S  RIDE  IN  ICELAND.     Third  Edition. 

GEORGE  HARLEY,  F.R.S.;  or,  the  Life  of  a  London 
Physician.     Second  Edition, 


from  a  Skelcli  by  Percy  Anderson. 


MISS   CONSTANCE  COLLIKK   AS   PAI.LAS   ATHENE    IN    "  ULYSSES." 
Frontispiece. '\ 


Behind  the 

Footlights 


MRS.    ALEC-TWEEDIE 

AUTHOR  OF 
MEXICO   AS   I   SAW    IT,"   "GEORGE   HARLEY,    F.R.S.,"   ETC. 


WITH    TIVENTY  ILLUSTRATION 


NEW  YORK 

DODD    MEAD    AND    COMPANY 
1904 


PRINTED   BY 

HAZELL,    WATSON   AND   VINEY,    LD., 

LONDON   AND  AYLESBURY, 

ENGLAND. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER    I 

THE    GLAMOUR    OF    THE    STAGE 

PAGE 

Girlish  Dreams  of  Success — Golden  Glitter — Overcrowding — Few 
Successful  —  Weedon  Grossmith  —  Beerbohm  Tree  —  How 
Mrs.  Tree  made  Thousands  for  the  War  Fund — The  Stage 
Door  Reached — Glamour  Fades — The  Divorce  Court  and  the 
Theatre — Childish  Enthusiasm — Old  Scotch  Body's  Horror — 
Love  Letters — Temptations — Emotions — How  Women  began 
to  Act  under  Charles  I.— Influence  of  the  Theatre  for  Good 
or  111 I 

CHAPTER    II 

CRADLED    IN    THE    THEATRE 

Three  Great  Aristocracies — Born  on  the  Stage — Inherited  Talent 
— Interview  with  Mrs.  Kendal — Her  Opinions  and  Warning 
to  Youthful  Aspirants — Usual  Salary — Starving  in  the  Attempt 
to  Live — No  Dress  Rehearsal — Overdressing — A  Peep  at 
Harley  Street — Voice  and  Expression — American  Friends  — 
Mrs.  Kendal's  Marriage — Forbes  Robertson's  Romance — Why 
he  Deserted  Art  for  the  Stage — Fine  Elocutionist — Bad 
Enunciation  and  Noisy  Music— Ellen  Terry — Gillette — Ex- 
pressionless Faces — Long  Runs — Charles  Warner — Abuse 
of  Success 21 

CHAPTER   III 

THEATRICAL    FOLK 
Miss  Winifred  Emery — Amusing  Criticism — An  Actress's  Home 
Life — Cyril  Maude's  first  Theatrical  Venture — First  Perform- 
ance— A  Luncheon  Party — A  Bride  as  Leading  Lady — No 


vi  CONTENTS 

PA.GE 

Games,  no  Holidays — A  Party  at  the  Haymarket — Miss 
Ellaline  Terriss  and  her  First  Appearance — Seymour  Hicks 
— Ben  Webster  and  Montagu  Williams — The  Sothern  Family 
— Edward  Sothern  as  a  Fisherman — A  Terrible  Moment — 
Almost  a  Panic — Asleep  as  Dundreary — Frohman  at  Daly's 
Theatre — English  and  American  Alliance — Mummers     .         .      46 


CHAPTER    IV 

FLAYS    AND    PLAYWRIGHTS 

Interview  with  Ibsen  —  His  Appearance  —  His  Home  —  Plays 
Without  Plots— His  Writing-table— His  Fetiches— Old  at 
Seventy — A  Real  Tragedy  and  Comedy — Ibsen's  First  Book 
— Winter  in  Norway — An  Epilogue — Arthur  Wing  Pinero — 
Educated  for  the  Law — As  Caricaturist — An  Entertaining 
Luncheon — How  Pinero  writes  his  Plays — A  Hard  Worker — 
First  Night  of  Lctty 74 


CHAPTER    V 

THE    ARMY   AND    THE    STAGE 

Captain  Robert  Marshall — From  the  Ranks  to  the  Stage — ^10  for 
a  Play — How  CopjTight  is  Retained — I.  Zangwill  as  Actor — 
Copyright  Performance— Three  First  Plays  (Pinero,  Grundy, 
Sims) — Cyril  Maude  at  the  Opera — Mice  and  Men — Sir 
Francis  Burnand,  Punch,  Sir  John  Tenniel,  and  a  Cartoon — 
Brandon  Thomas  and  Charlefs  Aunt — How  that  Play  was 
Written — The  Gaekwar  of  Baroda — Changes  in  London — 
Frederick  Fenn  at  Clement's  Inn — James  Welch  on  Audiences      92 


CHAPTER    VI 

DESIGNING    THE    DRESSES 

Sarah  Bernhardt's  Dresses  and  Wigs — A  Great  Musician's  Hair 
— Expenses  of  Mounting — Percy  Anderson — Ulysses — The 
Eternal  City — A  Dress  Parade — Armour — Over-elaboration — 
An  Understudy — Miss  Fay  Davis — A  London  Fog — The 
Difficulties  of  an  Engagement IH 


CONTENTS  vii 

CHAPTER    VII 

SUPPER    ON    THE    STAGE 

PAGE 

Reception  on  the  St.  James's  Stage — An  Indian  Prince— His 
Comments — The  Audience — George  Alexander's  Youth — 
How  he  missed  a  Fortune — How  he  learns  a  Part — A  Scenic 
Garden — Love  of  the  Country — Actors'  Pursuits — Strain  of 
Theatrical  Life — Life  and  Death — Fads — Mr.  Maude's  Dress- 
ing-room— Sketches  on  Distempered  Walls — Arthur  Bourchier 
and  his  Dresser — John  Hare — Early  and  late  Theatres — A 
Solitary  Dinner — An  Hour's  Make-up — A  Forgetful  Actor — 
Bonne  Camaraderie — Theatrical  Salaries — Treasury  Day — 
Thriftlessness — The  Advent  of  Stalls — The  Bancrofts — The 
Haymarket  Photographs — A  Dress  Rehearsal         .         .        -125 

CHAPTER    VIII 

MADAME    SARAH  BERNHARDT 

Sarah  Bernhardt  and  her  Tomb— The  Actress's  Holiday — Love 
of  her  Son — Sarah  Bernhardt  Shrimping — Why  she  left  the 
Comedie  Francaise— Life  in  Paris — A  French  Claque — Three 
Ominous  Raps — Strike  of  the  Orchestra — Parisian  Theatre 
Customs — Programmes — Late  Comers — The  Matinee  Hat — 
Advertisement  Drop  Scene — First  Night  of //aw/*?/- Madame 
Bernhardt's  own  Reading  of  Hamlet— Yonc\iS  Skull — Dr. 
Horace  Howard  Furness — A  Great  Shakesperian  Library      .     151 


CHAPTER    IX 

AN   HISTORICAL    FIRST  NIGHT 

An  Interesting  Dinner — Peace  in  the  Transvaal — Beerbohm  Tree 
as  a  Seer — How  he  cajoled  Ellen  Terry  and  Mrs.  Kendal  to 
Act — First-nighters  on  Camp-stools — Different  Styles  of  Mrs. 
Kendal  and  Miss  Terry — The  Fun  of  the  Thing — Bows  of 
the  Dead — FalstafTs  Discomfort — Amusing  Incidents — Ner- 
vousness behind  the  Curtain — An  Author's  Feelings     .         .       I7j 


viii  CONTENTS 


CHAPTER    X 
OPERA     COMIC 

PAGE 

How  W.  S.  Gilbert  loves  a  Joke — A  Brilliant  Companion — Operas 
Reproduced  without  an  Altered  Line — Many  Professions — A 
Lovely  Home — Sir  Arthur  Sullivan's  Gift — A  Rehearsal  of 
Pinafore — Breaking  up  Crowds— Punctuality — Soldier  or  no 
Soldier — lolanthe — Gilbert  as  an  Actor — Gilbert  as  Audience 
— The  Japanese  Anthem — Amusement i86 

CHAPTER    XI 

THE    FIRST   PANTOMIME    REHEARSAL 

Origin  of  Pantomime — Drury  Lane  in  Darkness — One  Thousand 
Persons — Rehearsing  the  Chorus — The  Ballet — Dressing- 
rooms — Children  on  the  Stage — Size  of  "The  Lane" — A 
Trap-door — The  Property-room — Made  on  the  Premises — 
Wardrobe-woman — Dan  Leno  at  Rehearsal — Herbert  Camp- 
bell— A  Fortnight  Later — A  Chat  with  the  Principal  Girl — 
Miss  Madge  Lessing 200 

CHAPTER    XH 

SIR    HENRY   IRVING   AND    STAGE    LIGHTING 

Sir  Henry  Irving's  Position — Miss  Genevieve  Ward's  Dress — Re- 
formations in  Lighting— The  most  Costly  Play  ever  Produced 
— Strong  Individuality — Character  Parts — Irving  earned  his 
Living  at  Thirteen — Actors  and  Applause — A  Pathetic  Story 
— No  Shakespeare  Traditions — Imitation  is  not  Acting — 
Irving's  Appearance — His  Generosity— The  First  Night  of 
Dante — First  Night  of  Fatist — Two  Terriss  Stories — Sir 
Charles  Wyndham 222 

CHAPTER    XIII 

WHY   A    NOVELIST  BECOMES    A    DRAMATIST 

Novels  and  Plays — Little  Lord  Fauntleroy  and  his  Origin — Mr. 
Hall  Caine — Preference  for  Books  to  Plays — John  Oliver 
Hobbes — J.     M.     Barrie's     Diffidence — Anthony    Hope — A 


CONTENTS  ix 

PAGE 

London  Bachelor — A  Pretty  Wedding — A  Tidy  Author — A 
First  Night — Dramatic  Critics — How  Notices  are  Written — 
The  Critics  Criticised — Distribution  of  Paper — "Stalls  Full  " 
— Black  Monday— Do  Royalty  pay  for  their  Seats  ? — Wild 
Pursuit  of  the  Owner  of  the  Royal  Box — The  Queen  at  the 
Opera 240 


CHAPTER    XIV 

SCENE-PAINTING    AND    CHOOSING   A    PLAY 

Novelist — Dramatist — Scene-painter — An  Amateur  Scenic  Artist 
— Weedon  Grossmith  to  the  Rescue — Mrs.  Tree's  Children — 
Mr.  Grossmith's  Start  on  the  Stage — A  Romantic  Marriage — 
How  a  Scene  is  built  up — English  and  American  Theatres 
Compared — Choosing  a  Play — Theatrical  Syndicate — Three 
Hundred  and  Fifteen  Plays  at  the  Haymarket     .         .         .     263 


CHAPTER    XV 

THEATRICAL    DRESSING-ROOMS 

A  Star's  Dressing-room — Long  Flights  of  Stairs — Miss  Ward  at 
the  Haymarket — A  Wimple — An  Awkward  Predicament — 
How  an  Actress  Dresses — Herbert  Waring — An  Actress's 
Dressing-table — A  Girl's  Photographs  of  Herself — A  Grease- 
paint Box — Eyelashes — White  Hands— Mrs.  Langtry's  Dress- 
ing-room— Clara  Morris  on  Make-up — Mrs.  Tree  as  Author 
— "Resting" — Mary  Anderson  on  the  Stage— An  Author's 
Opinion — Actors  in  Society 275 


CHAPTER    XVI 

HOW   DOES   A    MAN    GET    ON    THE    STAGE? 

A  Voice  Trial — How  it  is  Done — Anxious  Faces — Singing  into 
Cimmerian  Darkness— A  Call  to  Rehearsal— The  Ecstasy 
of  an  Engagement — Proof  Copy;  Private — Arrival  of  the 
Principals — Chorus  on  the  Stage— Rehearsing  Twelve  Hours 
a  Day  for  Nine  Weeks  without  Pay 292 


X  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER    XVII 

A    GIRL    IN    THE    PROVINCES 

I- AGE 

Why  Women  go  on  the  Stage — How  to  prevent  it — Miss  Florence 
St.  John — Provincial  Company — Theatrical  Basket — A  Fit-up 
Tour — A  Theatre  Tour — Repertoire  Tour — Strange  Land- 
ladies— Bills — The  Longed-for  Joint — Second-hand  Clothes 
— Buying  a  Part — Why  Men  Deteriorate — Oceans  of  Tea — 
E.  S.  Willard — Why  he  Prefers  America^A  Hunt  for  Rooms 
— A  Kindly  Clergyman — A  Drunken  Landlady — How  the 
Dog  Saved  an  Awkward  Predicament 302 

CHAPTER    XVTII 

PERILS    OF    THE    STAGE 

Easy  to  Make  a  Reputation — Difficult  to  Keep  One — The  Theatri- 
cal Agent — The  Butler's  Letter — Mrs.  Siddons'  Warning — 
Theatrical  Aspirants — The  Bogus  Manager — The  Actress  of 
the  Police  Court — Ten  Years  of  Success — Temptations — Late 
Hours — An  Actress's  Advertisement — A  Wicked  Agreement 
— Rules  Behind  the  Scenes — Edward  Terry — Success  a 
Bubble 325 

CHAPTER    XIX 

"  CHORUS    GIRL    NUMBER    II.     ON    THE    LEFT'' 

H  iFantas^  ffounfecJ  on  jFact 

Plain  but  Fascinating — The  Swell  in  the  Stalls — Overtures — Per- 
sistence— Introduction  at  Last— Her  Storj' — His  Kindness — 
Happiness  crept  in — Love — An  Ecstasy  of  Joy — His  Story — 
A  Rude  Awakening — The  Result  of  Deception — The  Injustice 
of  Silence — Back  to  Town — Illness — Sleep     ....     345 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


MISS  CONSTANCE  COLLIER  AS  PALLAS  ATHENE  IN  "  ULYSSES"   . 

From  a  ske/c/i  by  Percy  Anderson. 
MRS.    KENDAL    AS     MISTRESS    FORD    IN    "MERRY    WIVES 

OF   WINDSOR  " To 

MR.   W.    H.    KENDAL 

MR.   J.    FORBES-ROBERTSON 

From  a  painting  by  Hugh  de  T.  Glazebrook. 
MISS     WINIFRED     EMERY     AND     MR.     CYRIL     MAUDE     IN 

"THE   SCHOOL   FOR   SCANDAL" 
MR.   AND   MRS.    SEYMOUR    HICKS 

DR.    HENRIK   IBSEN 

MR.   ARTHUR   W.    PINERO  .... 

DRAWING   OF   COSTUME   FOR   JULIET 

By  Percy  Anderson. 
MR.   GEORGE   ALEXANDER  .... 

MADAME   SARAH    BERNHARDT    AS   HAMLET 
MR.    BEERBOHM    TREE    AS   FALSTAFF 
MISS    ELLEN    TERRY    AS    QUEEN     KATHERINE  . 

MR.   W.    S.    GILBERT 

SIR    HENRY   IRVING 

MR.  ANTHONY  HOPE 

From  a  painting  by  Hugh  dc  T.  Glazebrook. 
MR.   WEEDON    GROSSMITH  .... 

MRS.    BEERBOHM   TREE 

MRS.    PATRICK    CAMPBELL  .... 

From  a  painting  by  Hugh  de  T.  Glaz-ebrook. 
MR.    GEORGE   GROSSMITH 


Frontispiece 


face  p.      20 


J- 
36 


48 
64 
76 
84 
1X2 

128 
152 
176 
184 
192 
224 
248 

264 
288 
312 

336 


BEHIND    THE    FOOTLIGHTS 


CHAPTER    I 

THE    GLAMOUR    OF   THE    STAGE 

Girlish  Dreams  of  Success— Golden  Glitter— Overcrowding— Few  suc- 
cessful— Weedon  Grossmith — Beerbohm  Tree — How  Mrs.  Tree 
made  Thousands  for  the  War  Fund— The  Stage  Door  reached— 
Glamour  fades — The  Divorce  Court  and  the  Theatre— Childish 
Enthusiasm — Old  Scotch  Body's  Horror— Love  Letters — Tempta- 
tions— Emotions — How  Women  began  to  Act  under  Charles  \. — 
Influence  of  the  Theatre  for  Good  or  111. 

"  T   WANT    to    go  on    the   stage,"   declared  a  girl 

X  as  she  sat  one  day  opposite  her  father,  a  London 
physician,  in  his  consulting-room. 

The  doctor  looked  up,  amazed,  deliberately  put 
down  his  pen,  cast  a  scrutinising  glance  at  his 
daughter,  then  said  tentatively  : 

"  Want  to  go  on  the  stage,  eh }  " 

"  Yes,  I  wish  to  be  an  actress.  I  have  had  an 
offer — oh,  such  a  delightful  offer— to  play  a  girl's 
part  in  the  forthcoming  production  at  one  of  our 
best  theatres." 

Her  father  made  no    comment,    only  looked  again 

I 


2  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

steadily  at  the  girl  in  order  to  satisfy  himself 
that  she  was  speaking  seriously.  Then  he  took  the 
letter  she  held  out,  read  it  most  carefully,  folded 
it  up — in  what  the  would-be  actress  thought  an 
exasperatingly  slow  fashion — and  after  a  pause 
observed  : 

"  So  this  is  the  result  of  allowing  you  to  play  in 
private  theatricals.     What  folly  !  " 

The  girl  started  up — fire  flashed  from  her  eyes, 
and  her  lips  trembled  as  she  retorted  passionately  : 

*'  I  don't  see  any  folly,  I  only  see  a  great  career 
opening  before  me.  I  want  to  go  on  the  stage  and 
make  a  name." 

The  doctor  looked  more  grave  than  ever,  but 
replied  calmly : 

"You  are  very  young — you  have  only  just  been 
to  your  first  ball  ;  you  know  nothing  whatever  about 
the  world  or  work." 

"  But  I  can  learn,  and  intend  to  do  so." 

"  Ah  yes,  that  is  all  very  well  ;  but  what  you 
really  see  at  this  moment  is  only  the  prospect  of 
so  many  guineas  a  week,  of  applause  and  admiration, 
of  notices  in  the  papers,  when  at  one  jump  you  expect 
to  gain  the  position  already  attained  by  some  great 
actress.  What  you  do  not  see,  however,  is  the  hard 
work,  the  dreary  months,  nay  years,  of  waiting,  the 
many  disappointments  that  precede  success — you  do 
not  realise  the  struggle  of  it  all,  or  the  many, 
many  failures." 

She  looked  amazed.  What  possible  struggle  could 
there  be  on   the  stage  ?   she   wondered. 


THE   GLAMOUR   OF   THE  STAGE        3 

"  Is  this  to  be  the  end  of  my  having  worked 
for  you,"  he  asked  pathetically,  "  planned  for  you, 
given  you  the  best  education  I  could,  done  every- 
thing possible  to  make  your  surroundings  happy, 
that  at  the  moment  when  I  hoped  you  were  going 
to  prove  a  companion  and  a  comfort,  you  announce 
the  fact  that  you  wish  to  choose  a  career  for  your- 
self, to  throw  off  the  ties — I  will  not  call  them 
the  pleasures — of  home,  and  seek  work  which  it  is 
not  necessary   for   you   to   undertake  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  murmured  the  girl,  by  this  time  almost 
sobbing,  for  the  glamour  seemed  to  be  rolling  away 
like  mist  before  her  eyes,  while  glorious  visions  of 
tragedy  queens  and  comic  soubrettes  faded  into 
space. 

^'  I  will  not  forbid  you,"  he  went  on  sadly  but 
firmly — "  I  will  not  forbid  you,  after  you  are  twenty- 
one,  for  then  you  can  do  as  you  like  ;  but  nearly 
four  years  stretch  between  now  and  then,  and  during 
those  four   years   I   shall  withhold  my   sanction." 

Tears  welled  up  into  her  eyes.  Moments  come 
in  the  lives  of  all  of  us  when  our  nearest  and  dearest 
appear  to  understand  us  least.  Even  in  our  youth 
we  experience  unreasoning  sadness. 

''  I  do  not  wish,"  he  continued,  rising  and  patting 
her  kindly  on  the  back,  "  to  see  my  daughter  worn 
to  a  skeleton,  working  when  she  should  be  enjoying 
herself,  taking  upon  her  shoulders  cares  and  worries 
which  I  have  striven  for  years  to  avert — therefore  I 
must  save  you  from  yourself.  During  the  next 
four     years    I     will    try     to     show    you    what    going 


4  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

on  the  stage  really  means,  and  the  labour  it 
entails." 

She  did  not  answer,  exultation  had  given  place  to 
indignation,  indignation  to  emotion,  and  the  aspirant 
to  histrionic  fame  felt  sick  at  heart. 

That  girl  was  the  present  writer — her  father  the 
late  Dr.  George  Harley,  F.R.S.,  of  Harley  Street. 

During  those  four  years  he  showed  me  the  work 
and  anxiety  connection  with  the  stage  involves,  and 
as  it  was  not  necessary  for  me  to  earn  my  living 
at  that  time,  I  waited  his  pleasure,  and,  finally,  of 
my  own  free  will  abandoned  the  girlish  determi- 
nation of  becoming  an  actress.  Wild  dreams  of  glory 
and  success  eventually  gave  place  to  more  rational 
ideas.  The  glamour  of  the  footlights  ceased  to  shine 
so  alluringly — as  I  realised  that  the  actor's  art,  like 
the  musician's,  is  ephemeral,  while  the  work  and  anxiety 
are  great  in  both. 

The  restlessness  of  youth  was  upon  me  when  I 
mooted  the  project,  and  an  injudicious  word  then 
would  have  sent  me  forth  at  a  tangent,  probably  to 
fail  as  many  another  has  done  before  and   since. 

There  may  still  be  a  few  youthful  people  in  the 
world  who  believe  the  streets  of  London  are  paved 
with  gold — and  there  are  certainly  numbers  of  boys 
and  girls  who  think  the  stage  is  strewn  with  pearls 
and  diamonds.  All  the  traditions  of  the  theatre  are 
founded  in  mystery  and  exaggeration  ;  perhaps  it  is 
as  well,  for  too  much  realism  destroys  illusion. 

Boys    and    girls    dream    great    dreams — they    fancy 


THE   GLAMOUR   OF   THE  STAGE        5 

themselves  leading  actors  and  actresses,  in  imagination 
they  dine  off  gold,  wear  jewels,  laces,  and  furs,  hear 
the  applause  of  the  multitude — and  are  happy.  But 
all  this,  as  said,  is  in  their  dreams,  and  dreams  only 
last  for  seconds,  while  life  lasts  for  years. 

One  in  perhaps  a  thousand  aspirants  ever  climbs 
to  the  top  of  the  dramatic  ladder,  dozens  remain 
struggling  on  the  lower  rung,  while  hundreds  fall 
out  weary  and  heart-sore  before  passing  even  the  first 
step.  Never  has  the  theatrical  profession  been  more 
overcrowded  than  at  the  present  moment. 

Many  people  with  a  wild  desire  to  act  prove  failures 
on  the  stage,  their  inclinations  are  greater  than  their 
powers.  Rarely  is  it  the  other  way  ;  nevertheless 
Fanny  Kemble,  in  spite  of  her  talent,  hated  the  idea  of 
going  on  the  stage.  At  that  time  acting  was  considered 
barely  respectable  for  a  woman  (1829).  She  was  re- 
lated to  Sarah  Siddons  and  John  Kemble,  a  daughter 
of  Charles  and  Fanny  Kemble,  and  yet  no  dramatic 
fire  burned  in  her  veins.  She  was  short  and  plain,  with 
large  feet  and  hands,  her  only  charm  her  vivacity  and 
expression.  Ruin  was  imminent  in  the  family  when 
the  girl  was  prevailed  upon  after  much  persuasion 
to  play  Juliet.  Three  weeks  later  she  electrified 
London.  Neither  time  nor  success  altered  her  re- 
pugnance for  the  stage,  however.  When  dressed  as 
Juliet  her  white  satin  train  lying  over  the  chair,  she 
recalled  the  scene  in  the  following  words  : 

o 
"  There  I  sat,  ready  for  execution,  with   the    palms 

of  my   hands  pressed  convulsively  together,  and    the 

tears    I    in    vain    endeavoured  to    repress    welling    up 


6  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

into    my    eyes,     brimming    slowly    over,     down     my 
rouged  cheeks." 

There  is  a  well-known  actor  upon  the  stage  to-day 
who  feels  much  as  Fanny  Kemble  did. 

"  I  hate  it  all,"  he  once  said  to  me.  "  Would  to 
Heaven  I  had  another  profession  at  my  back.  But  I 
never  really  completed  any  studies  in  my  youth,  and 
in  these  days  of  keen  competition  I  dare  not  leave 
an  income  on  the  stage  for  an  uncertainty  elsewhere." 

To  some  people  the  stage  is  an  alluring  goal, 
religion  is  a  recreation,  while  to  others  money  is  a 
worship.  The  Church  and  the  Stage  cast  their  fasci- 
nating meshes  around  most  folk  some  time  during 
the  course  of  their  existences.  It  is  scarcely  strange 
that  such  should  be  the  case,  for  both  hold  their 
mystery,  both  have  their  excitements,  and  man  de- 
lights to  rush  into  what  he  does  not  understand — 
this  has  been  the  case  at  all  times  and  in  all  countries, 
and,  like  love  and  war,  seems  likely  to  continue  to 
the  end  of  time. 

We  all  know  the  stage  as  seen  from  before  the 
footlights — we  have  all  sat  breathless,  waiting  for 
the  curtain  to  rise,  and  there  are  some  who  have 
longed  for  the  "  back  cloth  "  to  be  lifted  also,  that 
they  might  peep  behind.  In  these  pages  all  hind- 
rances shall  be  drawn  away,  and  the  theatre  and  its 
workings  revealed  from  behind   the  footlights. 

As  every  theatre  has  its  own  individuality,  so 
every  face  has  its  own  expression,  therefore  one  can 
only  generalise,  for  it  is  impossible  to  treat  each 
theatrical  house  and  its  customs  separately. 


THE   GLAMOUR   OF  THE    STAGE        7 

The  strong  personal  interest  I  have  always  felt 
for  the  stage  probably  originated  in  the  fact  that 
from  childhood  I  had  heard  stories  of  James  Sheridan 
Knowles  writing  some  of  his  plays,  notably  The 
Hunchback,  at  my  grandfather's  house,  Seaforth  Hall, 
in  Lancashire.  Charles  Dickens  often  stayed  there 
when  acting  for  some  charity  in  Liverpool.  Samuel 
Lover  was  a  constant  visitor  at  the  house,  as  also 
the  great  American  tragedian,  Charlotte  Cushman. 
Her  beautiful  sister  Susan  (the  Juliet  of  her  Romeo) 
married  my  uncle,  Sheridan  Muspratt,  author  of  the 
Dictionary  of  Chemistry.  From  all  of  which  it  will 
be  seen  that  theatrical  stories  were  constantly  re- 
tailed at  home  ;  therefore  when  I  was  about  to  "come 
out,"  and  my  fither  asked  if  I  would  like  a  ball,  I 
replied  : 

"  No,  I  should  prefer  private  theatricals." 

This  was  a  surprise  to  the  London  physician  ;  but 
there  being  no  particular  sin  in  private  theatricals, 
consent  was  given,  '■^provided,'"  as  he  said,  ^^ you 
paint  the  scenery,  make  your  own  dresses,  generally  run 
the  show,  and  do  the  thing  properly.^'' 

A  wise  proviso,  and  one  faithfully  complied  with. 
It  gave  an  enormous  amount  of  work  but  brought 
me  a  vast  amount  of  pleasure. 

Mr.  L.  F.  Austin,  a  clever  contributor  to  the 
Illustrated  London  News,  wrote  a  most  amusing  account 
of  those  theatricals — in  which  he,  Mr.  Weedon 
Grossmith,  and  Mrs.  Beerbohm  Tree  assisted — in 
his  little  volume  At  Random.  Sir  William  Magnay, 
then    a    well-known    amateur,    and     now    a    novelist. 


8  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

was  one  of  our  tiny  company.  Sweethearts^  Mr.  W. 
S.  Gilbert's  delightful  little  comedy,  was  chosen  for 
the  performance,  but  at  the  last  moment  the  girl 
who  should  have  played  the  maid  was  taken  ill. 
OfF  to  Queen's  College,  where  I  was  then  a  pupil, 
I  rushed,  dragged  Maud  Holt — who  became  Mrs 
Tree  a  few  weeks  later — back  with  me,  and  that 
same  night  she  made  her  first  appearance  on  any 
stage.  Very  shortly  afterwards  Mrs.  Beerbohm  Tree 
adopted  acting  as  a  profession,  and  appeared  first 
at  the  Court  Theatre.  Subsequently,  when  her 
husband  became  a  manager,  she  joined  his  company 
for  many  years. 

We  all  adored  her  at  College  :  she  was  tall  and 
graceful,  with  a  beautiful  figure  :  she  sang  charm- 
ingly, and  read  voraciously.  In  those  days  she  was  a 
great  disciple  of  Browning,  and  so  was  Mr.  Tree  ;  in  fact, 
the  poet  was  the  leading-string  to  love  and  matrimony. 

Mrs.  Beerbohm  Tree  considers  that  almost  the 
happiest  moments  of  her  life  were  spent  in  reciting 
The  Absent-minded  Beggar  for  the  War  Fund.  It 
came  about  in  this  wise.  She  had  arranged  to  give 
a  recitation  at  St.  James's  Hall  on  one  particular 
Wednesday.  On  the  Friday  before  that  day  she  saw 
announced  in  the  Daily  3V[ail  that  a  new  poem  by 
Rudyard  Kipling  on  the  Transvaal  war  theme  would 
appear  in  the  Tuesday  issue.  This  she  thought  would 
be  a  splendid  opportunity  to  declaim  a  topical  song 
at  the  concert,  so  she  wrote  personally  to  the  editor 
of  the  paper,  and  asked  him  if  he  could  possibly 
let  her  have  an  advance   copy  of  the   poem,   so   that 


THE   GLAMOUR  OF   THE   STAGE        9 

she  might  learn  and  recite  it  on  Wednesday,  as  the 
Tuesday  issue  would   be  too  late  for  her  purpose. 

Through  the  courtesy  of  Mr.  Harmsworth  she 
received  the  proof  of  The  Absent-minded  Beggar  on 
Friday  evening,  and  sitting  in  her  dining-room  in  Sloane 
Street  with  her  elbows  on  the  table  she  read  and 
re-read  it  several  times.  This,  she  thought,  might 
bring  grist  to  the  war  mill.  Into  a  hansom  she 
jumped,  and  off  to  the  Palace  Theatre  she  drove, 
boldly  asking  for  the  manager.  Her  name  was 
sufficient,  and  she  was  ushered  into  the  august  presence. 

"  This  is  a  remarkable  poem,"  she  said,  "  by  Mr. 
Rudyard  Kipling,  so  remarkable  that  I  think  if  recited 
in  your  Hall  nightly  it  would  bring  some  money  to 
the  fund,  and  if  you  will  give  me  _^ioo  a  week " 

Up  went  the  manager's  hand  in  horror. 

''  One  hundred  pounds  a  week,  Mrs.  Tree  } " 

"  Yes,  j^ioo  a  week,  I  will  come  and  recite  it  every 
evening,  and  hand  over  the  cheque  intact  to  the 
War  Pund." 

It  was  a  large  sum,  and  the  gentleman  could  not  see 
his  way  to  accepting  the  offer  on  his  own  responsibiHty, 
but  said  he  would  sound  his  directors  in  the  mornina:. 

Before  lunch-time  next  day  Mrs.  Tree  received  a 
note  requesting  her  to  recite  the  poem  nightly  as 
suggested,  and  promising  her  _^ioo  a  week  for  herself 
or  the  fund  in  return.  For  ten  weeks  she  stood  alone 
every  evening  on  that  vast  stage,  and  for  ten  minutes 
she  recited  "  Pay,  pay,  pay."  There  never  have 
been  such  record  houses  at  the  Palace  either  before  or 
since,   and  at  the  end   of  ten  weeks  she  handed  over 


lo  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

a  cheque  for  j^i,ooo  to  the  fund.  Nor  was  this  all, 
large  sums  were  paid  into  the  collecting  boxes  in  the 
Palace  Theatre.  In  addition  Mrs.  Tree  made  ^1,700 
at  concerts,  and  £^00  on  one  night  at  a  Club.  More 
than  that,  endless  people  followed  her  example,  and 
the  War  Fund  became  some  _^20,ooo  richer  for  her 
inspiration  in  that  dining-room  in  Sloane  Street. 

This  was  one  of  the  plums  of  the  theatrical  cake  ; 
but  how  different  is  the  performance  and  the  gold 
and  glitter  as  seen  from  the  front  of  the  curtain, 
to  the  real  thing  behind.  How  little  the  audience 
entering  wide  halls,  proceeding  up  pile  carpeted  stairs, 
sweeping  past  stately  palms,  or  pushing  aside  heavy 
plush  curtains,  realise  the  entrance  to  the  playhouse 
on  the  other  side  of  the  footlights. 

At  the  back  of  the  theatre  is  the  stage  door. 
Generally  up  an  alley,  it  is  mean  in  appearance,  more 
like  an  entrance  to  some  cheap  lodging-house  than 
to  fairyland.  Rough  men  lounge  about  outside, 
those  scene-shifters,  carpenters,  and  that  odd  list  of 
humanity  who  jostle  each  other  "  behind  the  scenes," 
work  among  "  flies,"  and  adjust  "  wings "  in  no 
ornithological  sense,  but  merely  as  the  side-pieces  of 
the  stage-setting. 

Just  inside  this  door  is  a  little  box-like  office  ; 
nothing  grand  about  it,  oh  dear  no,  whitewash  is  more 
often  found  there  than  mahogany,  and  stone  stairs 
than  Turkey  carpets.  Inside  this  little  bureau  sits 
that  severe  guardian  of  order,  the  stage  door  keeper. 
He  is  a  Pope  and  a  Czar  in  one.  He  is  always 
busy,  refuses   to   listen  to   explanations  ;  even  a  card 


THE   GLAMOUR   OF   THE  STAGE       ii 

is   not   sent   in   unless   that  important  gentleman  feels 
assured  its  owner  means  business. 

At  that  door,  which  is  dark  and  dreary,  the  glamour 
of  the  stage  begins  to  wane.  It  is  no  portal  to  a 
palace.  The  folk  hanging  about  are  not  arrayed  in 
velvets  and  satins;  quite  the  contrary;  torn  cashmeres 
and  shiny  coats  are  more  en  evidence. 

Strange  people  are  to  be  found  both  behind  and 
upon  the  stage,  as  in  every  other  walk  through  life  ; 
but  there  are  plenty  of  good  men  and  women  in 
the  profession,  men  and  women  whose  friendship  it 
is  an  honour  to  possess.  Men  and  women  whose 
kindness  of  heart  is  unbounded,  and  whose  intellectual 
attainments  soar  far  above  the  average. 

Every  girl  who  goes  upon  the  stage  need  not 
enjoy  the  privilege  of  marrying  titled  imbecility,  nor 
obtain  the  notoriety  of  the  Divorce  Court,  neither 
being  creditable  nor  essential  to  her  calling,  although 
both  are  chronicled  with  unfailing  regularity  by  the 
press. 

The  Divorce  Court  is  a  sad  theatre  where  terrible 
tragedies  of  human  misery  are  acted  out  to  the 
bitter  end.  Between  seven  and  eight  hundred  cases 
are  tried  in  England  every  year — not  many,  perhaps, 
when  compared  with  the  population  of  the  country, 
which  is  over  forty  millions.  But  then  of  course  the 
Divorce  Court  is  only  the  foam  ;  the  surging  billows 
of  discontent  and  unhappiness  lie  beneath,  and  about 
six  thousand  judicial  separations,  all  spelling  human 
tragedy,  are  granted  yearly,  by  magistrates,  the  greater 
number    of    such    cases    being     undefended.      They 


12  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

record  the  same  sad  story  of  disappointed,  aching 
hearts  year  in  year  out. 

Divorces  are  not  more  common  amongst  theatrical 
folk  than  any  other  class,  so,  whatever  may  be  said 
for  or  against  the  morality  of  the  stage,  the  Divorce 
Court  does  not  prove  theatrical  life  to  be  less  virtuous 
than  any  other. 

The  fascination  of  the  stage  entraps  all  ages — 
all  classes.  Even  children  sometimes  wax  warm  over 
theatrical  folk.  Once  I  chanced  to  be  talking  to  a 
little  girl  concerning  theatres. 

"  Do  you  know  Mr.  A.  B.  C.  ?  "  she  asked  excitedly, 
when  the  conversation  turned  on  actors. 

"  Yes,  he  is  a  great  friend  of  mine." 

'*  Oh,  do  tell  me  all  about  him,"  she  exclaimed, 
seizing  my  arm. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  know  ?  " 

"  Because  I  adore  him,  and  all  the  girls  at  school 
adore  him,  he  is  like  a  real  prince  ;  we  save  up  our 
pocket-money  to  buy  his  photographs,  and  May  Smith 
has  actually  got  his  autograph  !  " 

"  But  tell  me  why  you  all  adore  him  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Because  he  is  so  lovely,  so  tall  and  handsome,  has 
such  a  melodious  voice,  and  oh  !  doesn't   he  look  too 

beautiful  in  his  velvet  suit  as ^     He  is  young  and 

handsome,  isn't  he  .?  Oh,  do  say  he  is  young  and 
handsome,"  implored  the  enthusiastic  child. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  cannot,  for  it  would  not  be  true  ; 
Mr.  A.  B.  C.  is  not  tall  —  in  fact,  he  is  quite 
short."  She  looked  crestfallen.  "  He  has  a  sallow 
complexion." 


THE  GLAMOUR   OF   THE  STAGE       13 

*'  Sallow  !  Oh,  not  really  sallow  !  but  he  is  hand- 
some and  young,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  he  is  about  fifty-two." 

"  Fifty-two  !  "  she  almost  shrieked.  '*  My  A.  B.  C. 
fifty-two.  Oh  no.  You  are  chaffing  me  ;  he  must  be 
young  and  beautiful." 

"  And  his  hair  is  grey,"  I  cruelly  added. 

"Grey  ?  " — she  sobbed.    "  Not  grey  .?    Oh,  you  hurt 

>> 
me. 

"  You  asked  questions  and  I  have  answered  them 
truthfully,"  I  replied.  She  stood  silent  for  a  moment, 
then  in  rather  a  subdued  tone  murmured  : 

"  He  is  not  married,  is  he  }  " 

"  Oh  yes,  he  has  been  married  for  five-and-twenty 
years." 

The  child  looked  so  crestfallen  I  felt  1  had  been 
unkind. 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,"  she  almost  sobbed,  "  won't  the 
girls  at  school  be  surprised !  Are  you  quite,  quite 
sure  he  is  not  young  and  beautiful  .^  he  looks  so  lovely 
on   the   stage." 

"  Quite,  quite  sure.  You  have  only  seen  him  from 
before  the  footlights.  He  is  a  good  fellow,  clever 
and  charming,  and  he  works  hard,  but  he  is  no  lover 
in  velvet  and  jerkin,  no  hero  of  romance,  and  the  less 
you  worry  your  foolish  little  head  about  him  the 
better,  my  dear." 

How  many  men  and  women  believe  like  this  child 
that  there  are  only  princes  and  princesses  on  the 
stage. 

There    was    an    old     Scotch     body — an    educated, 


14  BEHIND    THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

puritanical  person — who  once  informed  me,  "  The 
the-a-ter  is  very  bad,  very  wicked,  ma'am." 

"  Why  ?  "  I  asked,  amazed  yet  interested. 

"It's  full  of  fire  and  lights  like  Hell.  They  just 
discuss  emotions  there,  ma'am,  and  it's  morbid  to 
discuss  emotions  and  just  silly  conceit  to  think  about 
them.     I  like  deeds,  and  not  talk — I  do  !  " 

"  You  seem  to  think  the  theatre  a  hotbed  of 
iniquity  ^  " 

"  Aye,  indeed  I  do,  ma'am.  They  even  make  thunder. 
Fancy  daring  to  make  thunder  for  amusement  as  the 
good  God  does  to  show  His  wrath — thunder  with  a 
machine — it's  just  dreadful,  it  is." 

The  grosser  the  exaggeration  the  more  readily  it 
provokes  conversation.  I  was  dying  to  argue,  but  fearing 
to  hurt  her  feelings,  I  merely  smiled,  wondering  what 
the  old  lady  would  say  if  she  knew  even  prayers  were 
made  by  a  machine  in  countries  where  the  prayer- 
wheel  is  used. 

*'  Have  you  ever  been  to  a  theatre  .?  "  I  ventured 
to  ask,  not  wishing  to  disturb  the  good  dame's  peace 
of  mind. 

"  The  Lord  forbid  !  " 

That  settled  the  matter  ;  but  I  subsequently  found 
that  the  old  body  went  to  bazaars,  and  did  not  mind 
a  little  flutter  over  raffles,  and  on'  one  occasion  had 
even  been  to  hear  the  inimitable  George  Grossmith 
in  Inverness,  when 

"  He  was  not  dressed-up-like,  so  it  wasn't  a  regular 
the-a-ter,  and  he  was  was  just  alone,  ma'am,  wi'  a 
piano,    so    there    was    no    harm    in    that,"    added    the 


THE   GLAMOUR   OF  THE    STAGE       15 

virtuous  dame,  complacently  folding  her  hands  across 
her  portly  form. 

Wishing  to  change  the  subject,  I  asked  her  how 
her  potatoes  were  doing. 

*'  Bad,  bad,"  she  replied,  "  they're  awfu'  bad,  the 
Lord's  agin  us  the  year  ;  but  we  must  jist  make  the 
best  of  it,  ma'am." 

She  was  a  thoroughly  good  woman,  and  this  was 
her  philosophy.  She  would  make  the  best  of  the  lack 
of  potatoes,  as  that  was  a  punishment  from  above  ; 
but  she  could  not  sanction  play-acting  any  more  than 
riding  a  bicycle  on   the   Sabbath. 

Her  horror  of  the  wickedness  of  the  staple  was  as 
amusing  as  the  absurd  adoration  of  the  enthusiastic 
child. 

Every  good-looking  man  or  woman  who  "  play 
acts  "  is  the  recipient  of  foolish  love-letters.  Pretty 
girls  receive  them  from  sentimental  youth  or  sensual 
old  age,  and  handsome  men  are  pestered  with  them 
from  old  maids,  or  unhappily  married  women.  Some 
curious  epistles  are  sent  across  the  footlights,  even  the 
most  self-respecting  woman  cannot  escape  their  advent, 
although  she  can,  and,  does,  ignore  them. 

Here  is  a  sample  of  one  : 

"  For  five  nights  I  have  been  to  the  theatre  to  see 
you  play  in .  I  was  so  struck  by  your  perform- 
ance last  week  that  I  have  been  back  every  night  since. 
Vainly  I  hoped  you  would  notice  me,  for  I  always 
occupy  the  same  seat,  and  last  night  I  really  thought 
you  did  smile  at  me  "  (she  had  done  nothing  of  the 
kind,  anci  had  never  even  seen  the  man),  "  so  I  went 


1 6  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

home  happy — oh  so  happy.  I  have  sent  you  some 
roses  the  last  two  nights,  and  felt  sorry  you  did  not 
wear  them.  Is  there  any  flower  you  Hke  better  ?  I 
hardly  dare  presume  to  ask  you  for  a  meeting,  but 
if  you  only  knew  how  much  I  admire  you,  perhaps 
you  would  grant  me  this  great  favour  and  make  me 
the  happiest  man  on  earth.  I  cannot  sleep  for  thinking 
of  you.  You  are  to  me  the  embodiment  of  every 
womanly  grace,  and  if  you  would  take  supper  with 
me  one  night  after  the  performance  you  would  indeed 
confer  a  boon  on  a  lonely  man." 

No  answer  does  not  mean  the  end  of  the  matter. 
Some  men — and,  alas  !  some  women — write  again  and 
again,  send  flowers  and  presents,  and  literally  pester 
the  object  of  their  so-called  adoration. 

For  weeks  and  weeks  a  man  sent  a  girl  violets  ; 
one  night  a  diamond  ring  was  tied  up  in  the  bunch — 
those  glittering  stones  began  her  ruin — she  wrote 
to  acknowledge  them,  a  correspondence  ensued. 

That  man  proved  her  curse.  She,  the  once  beautiful 
and  virtuous  girl,  who  was  earning  a  good  income 
before  she  met  her  evil  genius,  died  lately  in  poverty 
and  obscurity.  The  world  had  scoff'ed  at  her  and 
turned  aside,  while  it  still  smiled  upon  the  man, 
although  he  was  the  villain  ;  but  can  he  get  away 
from  his  own  conscience  ^ 

Every  vice  carries  with  it  a  sting,  every  virtue  a 
balm. 

There  are  many  perils  on  the  stage,  to  which  of 
course  only  the  weak  succumb  ;  but  the  temptations 
are  necessarily  greater  than  in   other  professions.      Its 


THE   GLAMOUR  OF  THE   STAGE      17 

very  publicity  spells  mischief.  There  is  the  horrid 
man  in  all  audiences  who  tries  to  make  love  and  ogle 
pretty  women  across  the  footlights,  the  class  of  creature 
who  totally  forgets  that  the  best  crown  a  man  or 
woman  can  wear  is  a  good  reputation. 

Temptations  lie  open  on  all  sides  for  the  actor  and 
actress,  and  those  who  pass  through  the  ordeal  safely 
are  doubly  to  be  congratulated,  for  the  man  who  meets 
temptation  and  holds  aloof  is  surely  a  finer  character 
than  he  who  is  merely  "  good  "  because  he  has  never 
had  a  chance  of  being  anything  else. 

Journalism,  domestic  service,  and  the  stage  probably 
require  less  knowledge  and  training  for  a  beginning 
than  any  other  occupations. 

It  costs  money  and  time  to  learn  to  be  a  dressmaker, 
a  doctor,  an  architect,  even  a  shorthand  writer  ;  but 
given  a  certain  amount  of  cleverness,  experience  is  not 
necessary  to  do  "scissor-and-paste"  work  in  journalism, 
rough  housework,  or  to  "  walk  on "  on  the  stage ; 
but  oh  !  what  an  amount  of  work  and  experience  is 
necessary  to  ensure  a  satisfactory  ending,  more  particu- 
larly upon  the  boards,  where  all  is  not  gold  that  glitters. 
At  best  the  crown  is  only  brass,  the  shining  silver 
merely  tin,  and  in  nine  theatres  out  of  every  ten 
the  regal  ermine   but  a  paltry  rabbit-skin. 

Glitter  dazzles  the  eye.  Nevertheless  behind  it  beat 
good  hearts  and  true  ;  while  hard  work,  patient 
endurance,  and  courage  mark  the  path  of  the  successful 
player. 

Work  does  not  degrade  a  man  ;  but  a  man  often 
degrades  his  work, 

2 


1 8  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

If,  as  the  old  body  said,  it  be  morbid  to  discuss 
emotions,  and  egotistical  to  feel  them,  it  is  still  the 
actor's  art,  and  that  is  probably  why  he  is  such  a 
sensitive  creature,  why  he  is  generally  in  the  highest 
spirits  or  deepest  depths  of  woe,  why  he  is  full  of 
moods  and  as  varying  as  a  weathercock.  Still  he  is 
charming,  and  so  is  his  companion  in  stageland — 
the  actress.  Both  entertain  us,  and  amusement  is 
absolutely  essential  to  a  healthy  existence. 

When  one  considers  the  wonderful  success  of  women 
upon  the  stage  to-day,  and  their  splendid  position  socially, 
it  seems  almost  impossible  to  believe  that  they  never 
acted  in  England  until  the  reign  of  Charles  I.,  when 
a  French  Company  which  numbered  women  among 
its  players  crossed  the  Channel,  and  craved  a  hearing 
from  Queen  Henrietta  Maria.  One  critic  of  the  time 
called  them  "  unwomanish  and  graceless "  ;  another 
said,  *'  Glad  am  I  they  were  hissed  and  hooted  "  ;  but 
still  they  had  come  to  stay,  and  slowly,  very  slowly, 
women  were  allowed  to  take  part  in  theatrical 
performances.  We  all  know  the  high  position  they 
hold  to-day. 

In  1660  there  were  only  two  theatres  in  London, 
the  King's  and  the  Duke  of  York's,  the  dearest 
seats  were  the  boxes  at  four  shillings,  the  cheapest 
the  gallery  at  one  shilling.  Ladies  wore  masks  at  the 
play,  probably  because  of  the  coarse  nature  of  the 
performances,  which  gradually  improved  with  the  advent 
of  actresses. 

In  days  gone  by  the  playhouse  was  not  the 
orderly    place    it    is     nowadays,  and    the    unfortunate 


THE   GLAMOUR    OF  THE  STAGE       19 

"  mummers  "  had  to  put  up  with  every  kind  of 
nuisance  until  CoUey  Gibber  protested,  and  Queen 
Anne  issued  a  Proclamation  (1704)  against  disturb- 
ances. In  those  days  folk  arrived  in  sedan  chairs, 
and  their  noisy  footmen  were  allowed  free  admission 
to  the  upper  gallery  to  wait  for  their  lords  and 
ladies,  added  to  which  the  orange  girls  called  their 
wares  and  did  a  brisk  trade  in  carrying  love-missives 
from  one  part  of  the  house  to  the  other.  Before 
the  players  could  be  heard  they  had  to  fight  their 
way  on  to  the  boards,  where  gilded  youth  lolled  in 
the  wings  and  even  crossed  the  stage  during  the 
rendering  of  a  scene. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Queen  Anne  made  a 
stand  against  the  shocking  immorality  of  the  stage, 
and  ordered  the  Master  of  the  Revels  (much  the  same 
post  as  the  Lord  Chamberlain  now  holds)  to  correct 
these  abuses.  All  actors,  mountebanks,  etc.,  had  to 
submit  their  plays  or  entertainments  to  the  Master 
of  the  Revels  in  Somerset  House  from  that  day,  and 
nothing  could  be  performed  without  his  permission. 

The  stage  has  a  curious  effect  on  people.  Many 
a  person  has  gone  to  see  a  play,  and  some  line  has 
altered  the  whole  course  of  his  life.  Some  idea  has  been 
put  forth,  some  tender  note  played  upon  which  has 
opened  his  eyes  to  his  own  selfishness,  his  own  greed 
of  wealth,  his  harshness  to  a  child,  or  indifference 
to  a  wife.  There  is  no  doubt  about  it,  the  stage  is 
a  great  power,  and  that  is  why  it  is  so  important 
the  influence  should  be  used  for  good,  and  that  illicit 
love  and   demoralising   thoughts   should   be    kept    out 


20  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

of  the  theatre  with  its  mixed  audiences  and  sus- 
ceptible youth.     According  to  a  recent  report  : 

"  The  Berne  authorities,  holding  that  the  theatre 
is  a  powerful  instrument  for  the  education  of  the 
masses,  have  decided  that  on  two  days  of  the  week 
the  seats  in  the  theatre,  without  exception,  shall  be 
sold  at  a  uniform  price  of  fivepence.  '  Under  the 
direction  of  the  manager,'  writes  a  correspondent,  '  the 
tickets  are  enclosed  in  envelopes,  and  in  this  form 
are  sold  to  the  public.  The  scheme  has  proved  a 
great  success,  especially  among  the  working  classes, 
whom  it  was  meant  to  benefit.  To  prevent  ticket 
speculators  making  a  "  corner,"  the  principle  of  one 
ticket  for  one  person  has  been  adopted,  and  the 
playgoer  only  knows  the  location  of  his  seat  after  he 
enters  the  theatre.  No  intoxicants  are  sold  and  no 
passes  are  given.  The  expenses  exceed  the  receipts, 
but  a  reserve  fund  and  voluntary  contributions  are 
more  than  sufficient  to  meet  the   deficit.'  " 

Constantly  seeing  vice  portrayed  tends  to  make 
one  cease  to  think  it  horrible.  Love  of  gain  should 
not  induce  a  manager  to  put  on  a  piece  that  is 
public  poison.  Some  queer  plays  teach  splendid  moral 
lessons — well  and  good  ;  but  some  strange  dramas 
drag  their  audience  through  mire  for  no  wise  end 
whatever.  The  manager  who  puts  such  upon  his 
stage  is  a  destroyer  of  public  morality. 


PJio/o  hv  H'indoK'  tS'  Grove,  Baker  Slrcet,  11'. 

MRS.     KENDAL   AS    MISTRESS    FORD    IN    "MERRY    WIVES    OF    WINDSOR." 


CHAPTER    II 
CRADLED  IN  THE   THEATRE 

Three  Great  Aristocracies — Born  on  the  Stage — Inherited  Talent — 
Interview  with  Mrs.  Kendal — Her  Opinions  and  Warning  to 
Youthful  Aspirants — Usual  Salary — Starving  in  the  Attempt  to 
Live — No  Dress  Rehearsal — Overdressing — A  Peep  at  Harley 
Street — Voice  and  Expression — American*  Friends — Mrs.  Kendal's 
Marriage — Forbes  Robertson's  Romance — Why  he  deserted  Art 
for  the  Stage — Fine  Elocutionist — Bad  Enunciation  and  Noisy 
Music — Ellen  Terry — Gillette — Expressionless  Faces — Long  Runs 
— Charles  Warner — Abuse  of  Success. 

LONDON  is  a  great  world  :  it  contains  three 
aristocracies  : 

The  aristocracy  of  blood,  which  is  limited  ; 

The  aristocracy  of  brain,  which  is  scattered  ; 

And  the  aristocracy  of  wealth,  which  threatens  to 
flood  the  other  two. 

The  most  powerful  book  in  the  world  at  the 
beginning  of  the  twentieth  century  is  the  cheque- 
book. Foreigners  are  adored,  vulgarity  is  sanctioned  ; 
indeed,  all  are  welcomed  so  long  as  gold  hangs 
round  their  skirts  and  diamonds  and  pearls  adorn 
their  bodies.  Wealth,  wealth,  wealth,  that  is  the 
modern  cry,  and  there  seems  nothing  it  cannot 
buy,  even  a  transient  position  upon   the  stage. 

Many  of  our  well-known  actors  and  actresses  have. 


22  BEHIND    THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

however,  been  "  born  on  the  stage  " — that  is  to  say, 
they  were  the  children  of  theatrical  folk,  and  have 
themselves  taken  part  in  the  drama  almost  from 
babyhood. 

The  most  successful  members  of  the  profession  are 
those  possessed  of  inherited  talent,  or  that  have  gone 
on  the  stage  from  necessity  rather  than  choice,  men 
and  women  who  since  early  life  have  had  to  fight 
for  themselves  and  overcome  difficulties.  It  is  pleasant 
to  give  a  prominent  example  of  the  triumph  which 
may  result  from  the  blending  of  both  influences  in 
the  person  of  one  of  our  greatest  actresses,  Mrs. 
Kendal,  who  has  led  a  marvellously  interesting  life. 

She  was  born  early  in  the  fifties,  and  her  grand- 
father, father,  uncles,  and  brother  (T.  W.  Robertson) 
were  all  intimately  connected  with  the  stage  as  actors 
and  playwrights.  When  quite  a  child  she  began  her 
theatrical  career,  and  made  her  London  debut  in  1865, 
when  she  appeared  as  Ophelia  under  her  maiden  name 
of  Madge  Robertson,  Walter  Montgomery  playing 
the  part  of  Hamlet.  Little  Madge  was  only  three 
years  old  when  she  first  trod  the  boards,  whereon 
she  was  to  portray  a  blind  child,  but  when  she  espied 
her  nurse  in  the  distance,  she  rushed  to  the  wings, 
exclaiming,  "  Oh,  Nannie,  look  at  my  beautiful  new 
shoes  !  " 

Her  bringing  up  was  strict  ;  she  had  no  play- 
fellows and  never  went  to  school,  a  governess  and 
her  father  were  her  teachers.  Every  morning  that 
father  took  her  for  a  walk,  explaining  all  sorts  of 
things  as  they  went  along,  or    teaching  her  baby  lips 


CRADLED  IN  THE  THEATRE    23 

to  repeat  Shelley's  "  Ode  to  a  Foxglove."  On  their 
return  home,  he  would  read  Shakespeare  with  her,  so 
that  the  works  of  the  bard  were  known  to  her  almost 
before  she  learnt  nursery  rhymes. 

*'  I  was  grown  up  at  ten,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Kendal, 
"  and  first  began  to  grow  young  at  forty." 

When  about  fourteen,  she  was  living  with  her 
parents  in  South  Crescent,  off  Tottenham  Court 
Road.  One  Sunday — a  dreary  heavy,  dull,  rainy 
London  day — her  father  and  mother  had  been  talking 
together  for  hours,  and  she  wearily  went  to  the 
window  to  look  out,  the  mere  fact  of  watching  a 
passer-by  seeming  at  the  moment  to  afford  relaxa- 
tion. Tears  rolled  down  the  girl's  cheeks — she  was 
longing  for  companions  of  her  own  age,  she  was 
leaving  the  dolls  of  childhood  behind  and  learning 
to  be  a  woman.  Her  father  noticed  that  she  was 
crying,  and  exclaimed  in  surprise,  "  Why,  Daisy, 
what's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  feel  dull,"  she  said. 

"Dull,  dear  ? — dull,  with  your  mother  and  me  ^  " 

A  pathetic  little  story,  truly  :  the  parents  were 
so  wrapped  up  in  themselves,  they  never  realised 
that  sometimes  the  rising  generation  might  feel 
lonely. 

"  My  father  and  mother  were  then  old,"  said 
Mrs.  Kendal,  "  I  was  their  youngest  child.  All  the 
others  were  out  in  the  world,  trying  to  find  a  place." 

Early  struggles,  hopes  and  fears,  poverty  and 
luxury,  followed  in  quick  succession  in  this  remark- 
able woman's  life,  but  any  one  who  knows  her  must 


24  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

realise  it  was  her  indomitable  will  and  pluck,  coupled, 
of  course,  with  good  health  and  exceptional  talent, 
which  brought  her  the  high  position  she  holds 
to-day. 

If  Mrs.  Kendal  makes  up  her  mind  to  do  a  thing, 
by  hook  or  by  crook  that  object  is  accomplished.  She 
has  great  powers  of  organisation,  and  a  capacity  for 
choosing  the  right  people  to  help  her.  "  Never  say 
die  "  is  apparently  her  watchword. 

She,  like  Miss  Genevieve  Ward,  was  originally  in- 
tended for  a  singer,  and  songs  were  introduced  into  her 
parts  in  such  plays  as  The  Palace  of  Truth.  Unfortu- 
nately she  contracted  diphtheria,  which  in  those  days  was 
not  controlled  and  arrested  by  antitoxin  as  it  is  now, 
and  an  operation  had  to  be  performed.  All  this 
tended  to  weaken  her  voice,  which  gradually  left  her. 
Consequently  she  gave  up  singing,  or  rather,  singing 
gave  her  up,  and  she  became  a  "  play-actress."  She 
so  thoroughly  realises  the  disappointments  and  struggles 
of  her  profession  that  one  of  Mrs.  Kendal's  pet  hobbies 
is  to  try  and  counteract  the  evil  arising  from  the 
wish  of  inexperienced  girls  to  "  go  upon  the  stage." 

"  If  only  the  stage-struck  young  woman  could 
realise  all  that  an  actress'  life  means  !  "  she  said  to  me 
on  one  occasion.  "  To  begin  with,  she  is  lucky  if  she 
gets  a  chance  of  '  walking  on '  at  a  pound  a  week. 
She  has  to  attend  rehearsals  as  numerous  and  as  lengthy 
as  the  leading  lady,  who  may  be  drawing  ^^40  or  ^50 
for  the  same  period  ;  though,  mark  you,  there  are  very 
few  leading  ladies,  while  there  are  thousands  and 
thousands  of  walkers-on   who  will  never   be  anything 


CRADLED    IN   THE   THEATRE  25 

else.  This  ill-paid  girl  has  not  the  interest  of  a  big 
part,  which  stimulates  the  *  star '  to  work  ;  she  has 
only  the  dreariness  of  it  all.  Unless  she  be  in  a  ballet, 
chorus,  or  pantomime,  the  girl  has  to  find  herself  in 
shoes,  stockings,  and  petticoats  for  the  stage — no  light 
matter  to  accomplish  out  of  twenty  shillings  a  week. 
Of  course,  in  a  character-part  the  entire  costume  is 
found,  but  in  an  ordinary  case  the  girl  has  to  board, 
lodge,  dress  herself,  pay  for  her  washing,  and  get 
backwards  and  forwards  to  the  theatre  in  all  weathers 
and  at  all  hours  on  one  pound  a  week,  besides  supply- 
ing those  stage  necessaries.  Thousands  of  women  are 
starving  in  the  attempt. 

"  A  girl  has  to  dress  at  the  theatre  in  the  same 
room  with  others,  she  is  thrown  intimately  amongst 
all  sorts  of  women,  and  the  result  is  not  always 
desirable.  For  instance,  some  years  ago,  a  girl  was 
playing  with  us,  and,  mentioning  another  member  of 
the  company,  she  remarked,  '  She  has  real  lace  on  her 
under-linen.' 

"  I  said  nothing,  but  sent  for  that  lace-bedecked 
personage  and  had  a  little  private  talk  with  her,  telling 
her  that  things  must  be  different  or  she  must  go.  I 
tried  to  show  her  the  advantages  of  the  straight  path, 
but  she  preferred  the  other,  and  has  since  been  lost 
in  the  sea  of  ultimate  despair." 

So  spoke  Mrs.  Kendal,  the  famous  actress,  in  1903, 
standing  at  the  top  of  her  profession  ;  later  we  will 
see  what  a  girl  struggling  at  the  bottom  has  to  say 
on  the  same  subject. 

"  Remember,"   continued    Mrs.    Kendal,   "  patience. 


26  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

courage,  and  talent  may  bring  one  to  the  winning-post, 
but  few  ever  reach  that  Hne  ;  by  far  the  greater 
number  fall  out  soon  after  the  start — they  find  the 
pay  inadequate,  the  hours  too  long  ;  the  back  of  a 
stage  proves  to  be  no  enchanted  land,  only  a  dark, 
dreary,  dusty,  bustling  place  ;  and,  disheartened,  they 
wisely  turn  aside.  Many  of  them  drift  aimlessly 
into  stupid  marriages  for  bread  and  butter's  sake, 
where  discontent  turns  the  bread  sour  and  the  butter 
rancid. 

"  The  theatrical  profession  is  not  to  blame — it  is 
this  terrible  overcrowding.  There  are  numbers  of 
excellent  men  and  women  upon  the  stage  who  know 
that  there  is  nothing  so  gross  but  what  a  good  man 
or  woman  can  elevate,  nothing  so  lofty  that  vice 
cannot  cause  to  totter. 

"  I  entirely  disapprove  of  a  dress  rehearsal," 
continued  Mrs.  Kendal.  "  It  exhausts  the  actors 
and  takes  off  the  excitement  and  bloom.  One  must 
have  one's  real  public,  and  play  for  them  and  to 
them,  and  not  to  empty  benches.  We  rehearse  in 
sections.  Every  one  in  turn  in  our  company  acts  in 
costume,  so  that  we  know  each  individual  get-up 
and  make-up  is  right  ;  but  we  never  dress  all  the 
characters  of  the  play  at  the  same  time  until  the  night 
of  production." 

Mrs.  Kendal  is  very  severe  on  the  subject  of 
overdressing  a  part. 

"  Feathers  and  diamonds,"  she  said  "  are  not 
worn  upon  the  river.  Why,  then,  smother  a  woman 
with    them    when    she    is    playing    a    boating    scene  .'' 


CRADLED    IN   THE   THEATRE  27 

The  dress  should  be  entirely  subservient  to  the 
character.  If  one  is  supposed  to  be  old  and  dowdy, 
one  should  look  old  and  dowdy.  I  believe  in  cloth- 
ing the  character  in  character,  and  not  striving  after 
effect.  Overdressing  is  as  bad  as  over-elaboration 
of  stage-setting  :  it  dwarfs  the  acting  and  handicaps 
the  performers." 

Mrs.  Kendal  is  an  abused,  adored,  and  wonderful 
woman.  Like  all  busy  people,  she  finds  time  for 
everything,  and  has  everything  in  its  place.  Her 
house  is  neatness  exemplified,  her  table  well 
arranged,  the  dishes  dainty,  and  the  attendance  of 
spruce  parlourmaids  equally  good.  She  believes  in 
women  and  their  work  and  employs  them  whenever 
possible. 

There  is  an  old-fashioned  idea  that  women  who 
earn  their  living  are  untidy  in  their  dress  and 
slovenly  in  their  household  arrangements,  to  say 
nothing  of  being  unhappy  in  their  home  life.  Those 
of  us  who  know  women  workers  can  refute  the 
charge  :  the  busier  they  are,  the  more  method  they 
bring  to  bear  ;  the  more  highly  educated  they  are, 
the  more  capable  in  the  management  of  their  affairs. 
Mrs.  Kendal  is  no  exception  to  this  rule,  and  in 
spite  of  her  many  labours,  she  lately  encroached  upon 
her  time  by  undertaking  another  self-imposed  task, 
namely,  some  charity  work,  which  entailed  endless 
correspondence,  to  say  nothing  of  keeping  books, 
and  lists,  and  sorting  cheques  ;  but  she  managed  all 
most  successfully,  and  kept  what  she  did  out  of  the 
papers. 


28  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

*'  Dissuade  every  one  you  know,"  Mrs.  Kendal 
entreated  me  one  day,  "  from  going  on  the  stage. 
There  are  so  few  successes  and  so  many  failures  ! 
So  many  lives  are  shattered  and  hearts  broken  by 
that  everlasting  waiting  for  an  opportunity  which  only 
comes  to  a  few.  In  no  profession  is  harder  work 
necessary,  the  pay  in  the  early  stages  more  insignificant 
or  less  secure.  To  be  a  good  actress  it  is  essential 
to  have  many  qualifications  :  first  of  all,  health  and 
herculean  strength  ;  the  sweetest  temper  and  most 
patient  temperament,  although  my  remark  once  made 
about  having  '  the  skin  of  a  rhinoceros  '  was  delivered 
in  pure  sarcasm,  which,  however,  was  unfortunately 
taken  seriously. 

"  I  really  feel  very  strongly  about  this  rush  to  go  on 
the  stage.  In  the  disorganisation  of  this  democratic 
period  we  have  all  struggled  to  ascend  one  step,  and 
many  of  us  have  tumbled  down  several  in  the  attempt. 
Domestic  servants  all  want  to  be  shop-girls,  and  shop- 
girls want  to  be  actresses — stars,  mind  you  !  Everything 
is  upside-down,  for  are  not  the  aristocracy  themselves 
selling  wine,  coals,  tea-cakes,  and  millinery  }  " 

*'  Why  have  you  succeeded  .''  "  I  asked. 

"  Because  I  was  born  to  it,  cradled  in  the  profession, 
my  family  have  been  upon  the  stage  for  some  hundred 
years.  To  make  a  first-class  actress,  talent,  luck, 
temperament,  and  opportunity  must  combine  ;  but, 
mark  you,  the  position  of  the  stage  does  not  depend 
upon  her.  It  is  those  on  the  second  and  third  rungs 
of  the  ladder  who  do  the  hardest  of  the  work,  and 
most  firmly  uphold  the  dignity  of  the   stage,  just  as 


CRADLED  IN  THE  THEATRE    29 

it  Is  the  middle  classes  which  rivet  and  hold  together 
this  vast  Empire." 

Although  married  to  an  actor-manager,  Mrs. 
Kendal  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  arrange- 
ments of  the  theatre.  She  does  not  interfere  with 
anything. 

"  I  never  signed  an  agreement  in  all  my  life, 
either  for  myself  or  for  anyone  else.  I  never  engage 
or  dismiss  a  soul.  Once  everything  is  signed,  sealed, 
and  delivered,  and  all  is  ready,  then,  but  not  till 
then,  my  work  begins,  and  I  become  stage-manager. 
On  the  stage  I  supervise  everything,  and  attend  to 
all  the  smallest  details  myself.  To  be  stage-manager 
is  not  an  enviable  position,  for  one  is  held  responsible 
for  every  fault." 

The  Kendals  lived  for  years  in  Harley  Street, 
which  is  chiefly  noted  for  its  length,  and  being  the 
home  of  doctors.  Their  house  was  at  the  end  farthest 
from  Cavendish  Square,  at  the  top  on  the  left.  I 
know  the  street  well,  for  I  was  born  in  the  house 
where  Baroness  Burdett-Coutts  spent  her  girlhood, 
and  have  described  in  my  father's  memoirs  how, 
when  he  settled  in  Harley  Street  in  i860  as  a 
young  man,  there  was  scarcely  a  doctor's  plate  in 
that  thoroughfare,  or,  indeed,  in  the  whole  neigh- 
bourhood. Sir  William  Jenner,  Sir  John  Williams, 
Sir  Alfred  Garrod,  Sir  Richard  Quain,  and  Sir 
Andrew  Clark  became  his  neighbours  ;  and  later 
Sir  Francis  Jeune,  Lord  Russell  of  Killowen,  the 
present  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons  (Mr.  Gully), 
Sir    William     McCormac,    Sir    William    Church,    and 


30  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Mr.  Gladstone  settled  quite  near.  Mr.  Sothern  (the 
original  impersonator  of  Lord  Dundreary  and  David 
Garrick)  lived  for  some  time  in  the  street  ;  but,  so 
far  as  I  know,  he  and  the  Kendals  were  the  only 
representatives  of  the  stage.  A  few  years  ago,  not 
being  able  to  add  to  the  house  they  then  occupied 
as  they  wished,  the  Kendals  migrated  to  Portland 
Place,  which  is  now  their  London  residence,  while 
Filey  claims  them  for  sea  air  and  rest. 

The  Kendals  spent  five  years  in  the  United  States. 
It  was  during  those  long  and  tedious  journeys  in 
Pullman-cars  that  Mrs.  Kendal  organised  her  "  Un- 
selfish Club."  It  was  an  excellent  idea  for  keeping 
every  one  in  a  good  temper.  At  one  end  of  the  car 
the  women  used  to  meet  to  mend,  make,  and  darn 
every  afternoon,  while  one  male  member  of  the  com- 
pany was  admitted  to  read  aloud,  each  taking  this 
duty  in  turn.  Many  pleasant  and  useful  hours  were 
spent  in  speeding  over  the  dreary  prairie  in  this 
manner.  Only  those  who  have  traversed  thousands 
of  miles  of  desert  can  have  any  idea  of  the  weariness 
of  those  days  passed  on  the  cars.  The  railway  system 
is  excellent,  everything  possible  is  done  for  one's 
comfort,  but  the  monotony  is  appalling. 

Two  things  are  particularly  interesting  about  this 
great  actress — her  keen  sense  of  humour  and  her  love 
of  soap.  She  is  always  merry  and  cheerful,  has  endless 
jokes  to  tell,  has  a  quick  appreciation  of  the  ridiculous, 
and  can  be  just  as  amusing  off  the  stage  as  on  it. 

Her  love  of  soap-and-water  is  apparent  in  all  her 
surroundings  ;  she  is  always  most  carefully  groomed  ; 


CRADLED    IN   THE   THEATRE  31 

there  is  nothing  whatever  artificial  about  her — any- 
thing of  that  sort  which  is  necessary  upon  the  boards 
is  left  behind  at  the  theatre.  That  is  one  of  her 
greatest  charms.  She  uses  no  "  make-up,"  and, 
consequently,  she  looks  much  younger  off  the  stage 
than  she  does  upon  it. 

Her  expressions  and  her  voice  are  probably  Mrs. 
Kendal's  greatest  attractions.  Speaking  of  the  first, 
she  laughingly  remarked,  "  My  face  was  made  that 
way,  I  suppose  ;  and  as  for  my  acting  voice,  I  have 
taken  a  little  trouble  to  train  it.  We  all  start  in  a 
high  key,  but  as  we  get  older  our  voices  often  grow 
two  or  three  notes  lower,  and  generally  more  melo- 
dious, so  that,  while  we  have  to  keep  them  down  in  our 
youth,  we  must  learn  to  get  them  up  in  our  old  age, 
for  the  head  voice  of  comedy  becomes  a  throat  voice 
if  not  properly  produced,  and  tends  to  grow  hard  and 
rasping." 

We  had  been  discussing  plays,  good,  bad,  and  in- 
different. 

*'  I  have  the  greatest  objection  to  the  illicit  love  of 
the  modern  drama,"  she  remarked.  "  It  is  quite  un- 
necessary. Every  family  has  its  tragedy,  and  many 
of  these  tragedies  are  far  more  thrilling,  far  more 
heart-breaking,  than  the  unfortunate  love-scenes  put 
upon  the  stage." 

The  charming  impersonator  of  the  *'  Elder  Miss 
Blossom,"  one  of  the  most  delightful  touches  of 
comedy-acting  on  record,  almost  invariably  dresses 
in  black.  A  strong,  healthy-looking  woman,  un- 
touched by  art,  and  gently  dealt  with  by  years,  Mrs. 


32  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

Kendal  wears  her  glorious  auburn  hair  neatly  parted 
in  front  and  braided  at  the  back.  Fashion  in  this 
line  does  not  disturb  her  ;  she  has  always  worn 
it  in  the  same  way,  and  even  upon  the  stage  has 
rarely  donned  a  wig.  She  tells  a  funny  little  story 
of  how  a  dear  friend  teased  and  almost  bullied  her 
to  be  more  fashionable  about  her  head.  Every  one 
was  wearing  fringes  at  the  time,  and  the  lady  begged 
her  not  to  be  so  "  odd,"  but  to  adopt  the  new  and 
becoming  mode.  Just  to  try  the  effect,  Mrs.  Kendal 
went  off  to  a  grand  shop,  told  the  man  to  dress  her 
hair  in  the  very  latest  style,  paid  a  guinea  for  the  per- 
formance, and  went  home.  Her  family  and  servants 
were  amazed  ;  but  when  she  arrived  at  her  friend's 
house  that  evening  her  hostess  failed  to  recognise 
her.  So  the  fashionable  hairdressing  was  never 
repeated. 

"  I  worked  the  hardest,"  said  Mrs.  Kendal,  in 
reply  to  a  question,  "  in  America.  For  months  we 
gave  nine  performances  a  week.  The  booking  was 
so  heavy  in  the  different  towns,  and  our  time  so 
limited,  that  we  actually  had  to  put  in  a  third 
matinee,  and  as  occasionally  rehearsals  were  necessary, 
and  long  railway  journeys  always  essential,  it  was  really 
great  labour. 

"  As  a  rule  I  was  dressed  by  ten,  and  managed 
to  get  in  an  hour's  walk  before  the  matinee.  Back 
to  the  hotel  after  the  performance  for  a  six  o'clock 
meal,  generally  composed  of  a  cutlet  and  coffee, 
quickly  followed  by  a  return  to  the  theatre  and 
another  performance.     To  change  one's  dress  fourteen 


Pholo  by  Alfred  Ellis,  L'pt'cr  Baker  Slirct,  If. 

MR.    \V.    H.    KENDAL. 


CRADLED   IN   THE   THEATRE  33 

times  a  day,  as  I  did  when  playing  The  Ironmaster, 
becomes  a  little  wearisome  when  it  continues  for 
months." 

*'  Did  you  not  find  that  people  in  America  were 
extraordinarily  hospitable  ?  "  I  inquired,  remembering 
the  great  kindness  I  received  in  Canada  and  the 
States. 

'*  Undoubtedly  ;  but  we  had  little  time  for  any- 
thing of  that  sort,  which  has  always  been  a  great  regret 
to  me.  It  is  hard  lines  to  be  in  a  place  one  wants 
to  see,  among  people  one  wants  to  know,  and  never 
to  have  time  for  play,  only  everlasting  work.  We 
did  make  many  friends  on  Sundays,  however,  and 
I  have  the  happiest  recollections  of  America." 

Pictures  are  a  favourite  hobby  of  the  Kendals,  and 
they  have  many  beautiful  canvases  in  their  London 
home.  Every  corner  is  filled  by  something  in  the  way 
of  a  picture,  every  one  of  which  they  love  for  itself, 
and  for  the  memories  of  the  way  they  came  by  it, 
more  often  than  not  as  the  result  of  some  successful 
"  run."  They  have  built  their  home  about  them  bit 
by  bit.  Hard  work  and  good  management  have 
slowly  and  gradually  attained  their  ends,  and  they 
laugh  over  the  savings  necessary  to  buy  such  and 
such  a  treasure,  and  love  it  all  the  more  for  the 
little  sacrifices  made  for  its  attainment.  How  much 
more  we  all  appreciate  some  end  or  some  thing  we 
have  had  difficulty  in  acquiring.  That  which  falls 
at  our  feet  seems  of  little  value  compared  with 
those  objects  and  aims  secured  by  self-denial. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  about  it,"  Mrs   Kendal  finished 

3 


34  BEHIND  THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

by  saying,  "  theatrical  life  is  hard  ;  hard  in  the 
beginning,  and  hard  in  the  end." 

Such  words  from  a  woman  in  Mrs.  Kendal's 
position  are  of  vast  import.  She  knows  what  she 
is  talking  about  ;  she  realises  the  work,  the  drudgery, 
the  small  pay,  and  weary  hours,  and  when  she  says, 
**  Dissuade  girls  from  rushing  upon  the  stage,"  those 
would-be  aspirants  for  dramatic  fame  should  listen 
to  the  advice  of  so  experienced  an  actress  and  capable 
woman. 

As  said  at  the  beginning  of  this  chapter,  Mrs, 
Kendal  was  cradled  in  the  theatre :  she  was  also 
married  on  the  stage. 

Madge  Robertson  and  William  Kendal  Grimston 
were  playing  in  Manchester  when  one  fine  day  they 
were  married  by  special  licence,  A  friend  of  Mr. 
Kendal's  had  the  Town  Hall  bells  rung  in  honour 
of  the  event,  and  the  young  couple  were  ready  to 
start  off  for  their  honeymoon,  when  Henry  Compton, 
the  great  actor,  who  was  "billed"  for  the  following 
nights,  was  telegraphed  for  to  his  brother's  deathbed. 

At  once  the  arrangements  had  to  be  altered.  <^s 
Tou  Like  It  was  ordered,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs,  Kendal 
were  caught  just  as  they  were  leaving  the  town, 
and  bidden  to  play  Orlando  and  Rosalind  to  the 
Touchstone  of  Buckstone.  The  honeymoon  had  to 
be  postponed. 

The  young  couple  found  the  house  unusually  full 
on  their  wedding  night,  although  they  believed  no  one 
knew  of  their  marriage  until  they  came  to  the  words, 
"  Will   you,   Orlando,    have   to  wife  this   Rosalind  }  " 


CRADLED  IN  THE  THEATRE    35 

when    the   burst   of  applause   and   prolonged   cheering 
assured  them  of  the  good  wishes  of  their  public  friends. 

Another  little  romance  of  the  stage  happened  to  the 
Forbes  Robertsons.  Just  before  I  sailed  for  Canada, 
in  August,  1900,  Mr.  Johnston  Forbes  Robertson  came 
to  dinner.  He  had  been  away  in  Italy  for  some 
months  recruiting  after  a  severe  illness,  and  was  just 
starting  forth  on  an  autumn  tour  of  his  own. 

"  Have  you  a  good  leading  lady  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  I  think  so,"  he  replied.  "  I  met  her  for  the 
first  time  this  morning,  and  had  never  seen  her 
before." 

"  How  indiscreet,"   I    exclaimed.  How  do   you 

know  she  can  act  ? " 

"  While  I  was  abroad  I  wrote  to  two  separate 
friends  in  whose  judgment  I  have  much  confidence, 
asking  them  to  recommend  me  a  leading  lady.  Both 
replied  suggesting  Miss  Gertrude  Elliott  as  suitable 
in  every  way.  Their  opinions  being  identical,  and 
so  strongly  expressed,  I  considered  she  must  be 
the  lady  for  me,  and  telegraphed,  offering  her  an 
engagement  accordingly.  She  accepted  by  wire,  and 
at  our  first  rehearsal  this  morning  promised  very  well." 

I  left  England  almost  immediately  afterwards, 
and  eight  or  ten  weeks  later,  while  in  Chicago,  saw 
a  big  newspaper  headline  announcing  the  engage- 
ment of  a  pretty  American  actress  to  a  well-known 
English  actor.  Naturally  I  bought  the  paper  at  once 
to  see  who  the  actor  might  be,  and  lo  !  it  was  Mr. 
Forbes  Robertson.  It  seemed  almost  impossible  :  but 
impossible  things  have  a  curious  knack  of  being  true, 


36  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

and  the  signed  photograph  I  had  with  me  of  Forbes 
Robertson,  among  those  of  other  distinguished  English 
friends,  proved  useful  to  the  American  press,  who 
were  glad  of  a  copy  for  immediate  reproduction. 
Almost  as  quickly  as  this  handsome  couple  were  en- 
gaged, they  were  married.     Was  not  that  a  romance  ? 

Mr.  Forbes  Robertson  originally  intended  to  be  an 
artist,  and  his  going  on  the  stage  came  about  by  chance. 
He  was  a  student  at  the  Royal  Academy,  when  his 
friend  the  late  W.  G.  Wills  was  in  need  of  an  actor  to 
play  the  part  of  Chastelard  in  his  Mary  Stuart^  then 
being  given  at  the  Princess's  Theatre.  It  was  difficult 
to  procure  exactly  the  type  of  face  he  wanted,  for 
well-chiselled  features  are  not  so  common  as  one  might 
suppose.  Young  Forbes  Robertson  possessed  those 
features,  his  clear-cut  profile  being  exactly  suitable  for 
Chastelard.  Consequently,  after  much  talk  with  the 
would-be  artist,  who  was  loth  to  give  up  his  cherished 
profession,  W.  G.  Wills  introduced  his  friend  to  the 
beautiful  Mrs.  Rousby,  with  the  result  that  young 
Forbes  Robertson  undertook  the  part  at  four  days' 
notice. 

Thus  it  was  his  face  that  decided  his  fate.  From 
that  moment  the  stage  had  been  his  profession  and  art 
his  hobby  ;  but  a  newer  craze  is  rapidly  driving  paints 
and  brushes  out  of  the  field,  for,  like  many  another, 
the  actor  has  fallen  a  victim  to  golf. 

There  is  no  finer  elocutionist  on  the  stage  than 
Forbes  Robertson,  and  therefore  it  is  interesting  to 
know  that  he  expresses  it  as  his  opinion  that : 

''  Elocution  can  be  taught." 


From  a  paintiiv^  by  Hugh  de  T.  Glazebiook. 

MR.   J.    FORBES-ROBERTSON. 


CRADLED    IN   THE   THEATRE  37 

Phelps  was  his  master,  and  he  attributes  much  of  his 
success  to  that  master's  careful  training.  What  a  pity 
Phelps  cannot  live  among  us  again,  to  teach  some  of 
the  younger  generation  to  speak  more  clearly  than 
they  do. 

Bad  enunciation  and  noisy  music  often  combine  to 
make  the  words  from  the  stage  inaudible  to  the 
audience.  Why  an  old  farmer  should  arrive  down 
a  country  lane  to  a  blare  of  trumpets  is  unintelligible  : 
why  a  man  should  plot  murder  to  a  valse,  or  a  woman 
die  to  slow  music,  is  a  conundrum,  but  such  is  the 
fashion  on  the  stage.  One  sometimes  sits  through  a 
performance  without  hearing  any  of  what  ought  to 
be  the  most  thrillino;  lines. 

Johnston  Forbes  Robertson  has  lived  from  the  age 
of  twenty-one  in  Bloomsbury.  His  father  was  a  well- 
known  art  critic  until  blindness  overtook  him,  and  then 
the  responsibility  of  the  home  fell  on  the  eldest  son's 
shoulders.  His  father  was  born  and  bred  in  Aberdeen, 
and  came  as  a  young  man  to  London,  where  he  soon 
got  work  as  a  journalist,  and  wrote  much  on  art 
for  the  Sunday  Times^  the  Art  Journal^  etc.  His 
most  important  work  was  The  Great  Painters  of 
Christendom. 

The  West  Central  district  of  London,  with  its 
splendid  houses,  its  Adams  ceilings  and  overmantels, 
went  quite  out  of  fashion  for  more  than  a  quarter  of 
a  century.  With  the  dawn,  however,  of  1 900,  people 
began  to  realise  that  South  Kensington  stood  on  clay, 
was  low  and  damp,  and  consequently  they  gradually 
migrated  back  to  the  Regent's  Park  and  those  fine  old 


38  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

squares  in  Bloomsbury.  One  after  another  the  houses 
were  taken,  and  among  Mr.  Forbes  Robertson's  neigh- 
bours are  George  Grossmith  and  his  brother  Weedon, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Seymour  Hicks,  Lady  Monckton, 
"  Anthony  Hope,"  and  many  well-known  judges, 
aldermen,  solicitors,  and  architects. 

In  the  old  home  in  Bloomsbury  the  artistic  family 
of  Forbes  Robertson  was  reared.  Johnston,  as  we 
know,  suddenly  neglected  his  easel  for  the  stage  ;  his 
sister  Frances  took  up  literature  as  a  profession  ;  and 
his  brothers,  known  as  Ian  Robertson  and  Norman 
Forbes,  both  adopted  the  theatrical  profession.  So 
the  Robertsons  may  be  classed  among  the  theatrical 
families. 

Who  in  the  latter  end  of  the  nineteenth  century 
did  not  weep  with  Miss  Terry  ? — who  did  not  laugh 
with  her  well-nigh  to  tears  ?  A  great  personality, 
a  wondrous  charm  of  voice  and  manner,  a  magnetic 
influence  on  all  her  surroundings — all  these  are 
possessed  by  Ellen  Terry. 

In  the  days  of  their  youth  Mrs.  Kendal  and  Miss 
Ellen  Terry  played  together,  but  many  years  elapsed 
between  then  and  the  Coronation  year  of  Edward  VII., 
when  they  met  again  behind  the  footlights,  in  a  re- 
markable performance  which  shall  be  duly  chronicled 
in  these  pages. 

Like  Mrs.  Kendal,  Miss  Ellen  Terry  began  her 
theatrical  life  as  a  child.  She  was  born  in  Coventry 
in  1848 — not  far  from  Shakespeare's  home,  which 
later  in  life  became  such  an  attractive  spot  for  her. 
Her  parents  had  theatrical    engagements  at  Coventry 


CRADLED  IN  THE  THEATRE    39 

at  the  time  of  her  birth,  so  that  verily  she  was 
cradled  on  the  stage.  She  was  one  of  four  remarkable 
sisters,  Kate,  Ellen,  Marion,  and  Florence,  all  clever 
actresses  and  sisters  of  Fred  Terry  ;  while  another 
brother,  although  not  himself  an  actor,  was  connected 
with  the  stage.  Miss  Minnie  Terry  being  his  daughter. 
Altogether  ten  or  twelve  members  of  the  Terry  family 
have  been  in  the  profession. 

Ellen  Terry,  like  Irving,  Wyndham,  Hare,  Mrs. 
Kendal,  and  Lady  Bancroft,  learnt  her  art  in  stock 
companies. 

Miss  Ellen  Terry  has  always  had  the  greatest 
difficulty  in  learning  her  parts,  and  as  years  have 
gone  on,  even  in  remembering  her  lines  in  oft-acted 
plays  ;  but  every  one  knows  how  apt  she  is  to  be 
forgetful,  and  prompt  her  over  her  difficulties.  Irving, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  letter-perfect  at  the  first  rehearsal, 
and  rarely  wants  help  of  any  kind. 

Ellen  Terry  is  so  clever  that  even  when  she  has 
forgotten  her  words  she  knows  how  to  "  cover  "  her- 
self  by  walking  about  the  stage  or  some  other  pretty 
by-play  until  a  friend  comes  to  her  aid.  Theatrical 
people  are  extremely  good  to  one  another  on  these 
occasions.  Somebody  is  always  ready  to  come  to 
the  rescue.  After  the  first  week  everything  goes 
smoothly  as  a  rule,  until  the  strain  of  a  long  run 
begins  to  tell,  and  they  all  in  turn  forget  their  words, 
much  to  the  discomfiture  of  the  prompter. 

Forgetting  the  words  is  a  common  thing  during 
a  long  run.  I  remeniber  Miss  Genevieve  Ward 
telling   me  that  after  playing  Forget-Me-Not  some  five 


40  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS' 

hundred  times  she  became  perfectly  dazed,  and 
that  Jefferson  had  experienced  the  same  with  Rip 
van  Winkle^  which  he  has  to  continually  re-study. 
Miss  Gertrude  Elliott  suffered  considerably  in  the 
same  way  during  the  long  run  of  NLice  and  Men. 

Much  has  been  said  for  and  against  a  long  run  ; 
but  surely  the  "  against  "  ought  to  have  it.  No  one 
can  be  fresh  and  natural  in  a  part  played  night  after 
night — played  until  the  words  become  hazy,  and  that 
dreadful  condition  "  forgetting  the  lines"  arrives. 

At  a  charming  luncheon  given  by  Mr.  Pinero  for 
the  American  Gillette,  when  the  latter  was  creating 
such  a  furore  in  England  with  Sherlock  Holmes^  I 
ventured  to  ask  that  actor  how  long  he  had  played 
the  part  of  the  famous  detective. 

"  For  three  years,"  he  replied. 

"  Then  I  wonder  you  are  not  insane." 

*'  So  do  I,  ma'am,  I  often  wonder  myself,  for  the 
strain  is  terrible,  and  sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I  could 
never  walk  on  to  the  stage  at  all  ;  but  when  the 
theatre  is  full,  go  I  must,  and  go  I  do ;  though  I 
literally  shun  the  name  of  Sherlock  Holmes T 

We  quickly  turned  to  other  subjects,  and  discussed 
the  charm  of  American  women,  a  theme  on  which 
it  is  easy  for  an  English  woman  to  wax  eloquent. 

If  a  man  like  Gillette,  with  all  his  success,  all  his 
monetary  gain,  and  no  anxiety — for  he  did  not  finance 
his  own  theatres — could  feel  like  that  about  a  long 
run,  what  horrors  it  must  present  to  others  less  happily 
situated. 

Long   runs,    which    are    now    so    much    desired    by 


CRADLED   IN   THE   THEATRE  41 

managers  in  England  and  America,  are  unknown  on 
the  Continent.  In  other  countries,  where  theatres  are 
more  or  less  under  State  control,  they  never  occur. 
Of  course  the  "  long  run  "  is  the  outcome  of  the 
vast  sums  expended  on  the  production.  Managers 
cannot  recoup  themselves  for  the  outlay  unless  the 
play  draws  for  a  considerable  while.  But  is  this  the 
real  end  and  aim  of  acting  ?  Does  it  give  opportunity 
for  any  individual  actor  to  excel  ^ 

But  to  return  to  Ellen  Terry.  She  has  played 
many  parts  and  won  the  love  of  a  large  public  by 
her  wonderful  personality,  for  there  is  something  in 
her  that  charms.  She  is  not  really  beautiful,  yet  she 
can  look  lovely.  She  has  not  a  strong  voice,  yet 
she  can  sway  audiences  at  will  to  laughter  or  tears. 
She  has  not  a  fine  figure,  yet  she  can  look  a  royal 
queen  or  simple  maiden.  Once  asked  whether  she 
preferred  comedy  or  tragedy,  she  replied  : 

"  I  prefer  comedy,  but  I  should  be  very  sorry  if 
if  there  were  no  sad  plays.  I  think  the  feminine 
predilection  for  a  really  good  cry  is  one  that  should 
not  be  discouraged,  inasmuch  as  there  are  few  things 
that  yield  us  a  truer  or  a  deeper  pleasure  ;  but  I 
like  comedy  as  the  foundation,  coping-stone,  and 
pillar  of  a  theatre.  Not  comedies  for  the  mere 
verbal  display  of  wit,  but  comedies  of  humour  with 
both  music  and  dancing." 

Miss  Ellen  Terry  has  a  cheery  disposition,  in- 
variably looks  on  the  bright  side  of  things,  and  not 
only  knows  how  to  work,  but  has  actually  done  so 
almost  continuously  from  the  age  of  eight. 


42  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

One  of  Miss  Terry's  greatest  charms  is  her  mastery- 
over  expression.  It  is  really  strange  how  little  facial 
and  physical  expression  are  understood  in  England. 
We  are  the  most  undemonstrative  people.  It  is 
much  easier  for  a  Frenchman  to  act  than  for  an 
Englishman  ;  the  former  is  always  acting  ;  the  little 
shrug  of  the  shoulders,  the  movement  of  the  hand 
and  the  head,  or  a  wink  of  the  eye,  accompany  every 
sentence  that  falls  from  his  lips.  He  is  full  of  move- 
ment, he  speaks  as  much  with  his  body  as  with  his 
mouth,  and  therefore  it  is  far  less  difficult  for  him  to 
give  expression  to  his  thoughts  upon  the  stage  than  it 
is  for  the  stolid  Britisher,  whose  public  school  training 
has  taught  him  to  avoid  showing  feeling,  and  squeezed 
him  into  the  same  mould  of  unemotional  convention- 
ality as  all  his  other  hundreds  of  schoolfellows. 
There  is  no  doubt  about  it  that  everything  on  the 
stage  must  be  exaggerated  to  be  effective.  It  is  a 
world  of  unreality,  and  the  more  pronounced  the 
facial  and  physical  expression  brought  to  bear,  the 
more  effective  the  representation  of  the  character. 

To  realise  the  truth  of  these  remarks,  one  should 
visit  a  small  theatre  in  France,  a  theatre  in  some 
little  provincial  town,  where  a  quite  unimportant 
company  is  playing.  They  all  seem  to  act,  to  be 
thoroughly  enamoured  of  their  parts,  and  to  play 
them  with  their  whole  heart  and  soul.  It  is  quite 
wonderful,  indeed,  to  see  the  extraordinary  capacity 
of  the  average  French  actor  and  actress  for  expressing 
emotion  upon  the  stage.  Of  course  it  is  their  charac- 
teristic ;  but  on  the  other  hand,  the  German  nation  is 


CRADLED   IN   THE  THEATRE         43 

quite  as  stolid  as  our  own,  and  yet  the  stage  is  held 
by  them  in  high  esteem,  and  the  amount  of  drilling 
gone  through  is  so  wonderful  that  one  is  struck  by 
the  perfect  playing  of  an  ordinary  provincial  German. 
At  home  these  Teutonic  folk  are  hard  and  unemotional, 
but  on  the  boards  they  expand.  One  has  only  to 
look  at  the  German  company  that  comes  over  to 
London  every  year  to  understand  this  remark.  They 
play  in  a  foreign  tongue,  the  dresses  are  ordinary, 
one  might  say  poor,  the  scenery  is  meagre,  there 
is  nothing,  in  fact,  to  help  the  acting  in  any  way  ; 
and  yet  no  one  who  goes  to  see  one  of  their  per- 
formances can  fail  to  be  impressed  by  the  wonderful 
thoroughness  and  the  general  playing-in-unison  of 
the  entire  company.  Of  course  they  do  not  aim  so 
high  as  the  Meiningen  troupe,  for  they  were  a  State 
company  and  the  personal  hobby  of  the  Duke  whose 
name  they  bore.  We  have  no  such  band  of  players 
in  England,  although  F.  R.  Benson  has  done  much 
without  State  aid  to  accomplish  the  same  result,  and 
in  many  cases  has  succeeded  admirably. 

We  have  heard  a  great  deal  lately  about  the  prospect 
of  a  State-Aided  Theatre  and  Opera  in  London  ;  and 
there  is  much  to  be  said  for  and  against  the  scheme. 
Municipal  administration  is  often  extravagant  and  not 
unknown  to  jobbery,  neither  of  which  would  be  ad- 
visable ;  but  the  present  system  leads  to  actor-managers 
and  powerful  syndicates,  which  likewise  have  their 
drawbacks.  There  is  undoubtedly  much  to  be  said  both 
for  and  against  each  system,  and  the  British  public 
has    to    decide.       Meantime   we    learn    that    the   six 


44  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Imperial  theatres  in  Russia  (three  in  St.  Petersburg 
and  three  in  Moscow),  with  their  schools  attached, 
cost  the  Emperor  some  ^^400,000  a  year.  "  It  is 
possible  to  visit  the  opera  for  5^.,  to  see  Russian  pieces 
for  3(^.,  French  and  German  for  9<^."  These  cheap 
seats  are  supposed  to  be  a  source  of  education  to 
the  populace,  but  there  are  expensive  ones  as  well. 

Some  Englishmen  understand  the  art  of  facial  ex- 
pression. A  little  piece  was  played  for  a  short  time  by 
Mr.  Charles  Warner,  under  the  management  of  Mrs. 
Beerbohm  Tree.  The  chief  scene  took  place  in  front 
of  a  telephone,  through  which  instrument  the  actor 
heard  his  wife  and  child  being  murdered  many  miles 
away  in  the  country,  he  being  in  Paris.  It  was  a 
ghastly  idea,  but  Charles  Warner's  face  was  a 
study  from  the  first  moment  to  the  last.  He  grew 
positively  pale,  he  had  very  little  to  say,  and  yet  he 
carried  off  an  entire  scene  of  unspeakable  horror 
merely  by  his  facial  and  physical  expression. 

Some  of  our  actors  are  amusingly  fond  of  posing 
off  the  stage  as  well  as  on.  One  well-known  man  was 
met  by  a  friend  who  went  forward  to  shake  his  hand, 

"  Ah,  how  do  you  do  ^ "  gushed  the  Thespian, 
striking  an  attitude,  "  how  do  you  do,  old  chap  .'' 
Delighted  to  see  you,"  then  assuming  a  dramatic  air, 
"  but  who  the are  you  ?  " 

And  this  was  his  usual  form  of  greeting  after  an 
effusive  handshake. 

In  a  busy  life  it  is  of  course  impossible  to  remember 
every  face,  and  the  nonentities  should  surely  forgive  the 
celebrities,  for  it  is  so  easy  to  recognise  a  well-known 


CRADLED   IN   THE   THEATRE         45 

person  owing  to  the  constant  recurrence  of  his  name  or 
portrait  in  the  press,  and  so  easy  to  forget  a  nonentity 
whom  nothing  recalls,  and  whose  face  resembles  dozens 
more  of  the  same  type. 

One  often  hears  actors  and  actresses  abused — that 
is  the  penalty  of  success.  Mediocrity  is  left  alone, 
but,  once  successful,  out  come  the  knives  to  flay  the 
genius  to  pieces  ;  in  fact,  the  more  abused  a  man  is, 
the  more  sure  he  may  feel  of  his  achievements.  Abuse 
follows  success  in  proportion  to  merit,  just  as  foolish 
hopes  make  the  disappointments  of  life. 


CHAPTER  III 

THEATRICAL   FOLK 

Miss  Winifred  Emery — Amusing  Criticism — An  Actress's  Home  Life — 
Cyril  Maude's  first  Theatrical  Venture — First  Performance — A 
Luncheon  Party — A  Bride  as  Leading  Lady — No  Games,  no 
Holidays — A  Party  at  the  Haymarket — Miss  Ellaline  Terriss  and 
her  First  Appearance — Seymour  Hicks — Ben  Webster  and  Montagu 
Williams — The  Sothern  Family — Edward  Sothern  as  a  Fisherman 
— A  Terrible  Moment — Almost  a  Panic — Asleep  as  Dundreary 
— Frohman  at  Daly's  Theatre — English  and  American  Alliance 
— Mummers. 

ANOTHER  striking  instance  of  hereditary  theatri- 
cal talent  is  Miss  Winifred  Emery,  than  whom 
there  is  no  more  popular  actress  in  London.  This 
pretty,  agreeable  little  lady — who,  like  Mrs.  Kendal 
and  Miss  Terry,  may  be  said  to  have  been  born  in  the 
theatre — is  the  only  daughter  of  Samuel  Sanderson 
Emery,  a  well-known  actor,  and  grand-daughter  of 
John  Emery,  who  was  well  known  upon  the  stage. 
Her  first  appearance  was  at  Liverpool,  at  the  advanced 
age  of  eight. 

The  oldest  theatrical  names  upon  the  stage  to-day 
are  William  Farren  and  Winifred  Emery.  Miss 
Emery's  great-grandfather  was  also  an  actor,  so  she 
is  really  the  fourth  generation  to  adopt  that  pro- 
fession,   but     her    grandmother    and    herself    are    the 

46 


THEATRICAL   FOLK  47 

only  two  women  of  the  name  of  Emery  who  have 
appeared  on  playbills. 

As  is  well  known,  Miss  Emery  is  the  wife  of  Mr. 
Cyril  Maude,  lessee  with  Mr,  Frederick  Harrison — 
not  the  world-renowned  Positivist  writer — of  the 
Haymarket  Theatre. 

Although  Mrs.  Maude  finds  her  profession  engross- 
ing, she  calls  it  a  very  hard  one,  and  the  necessity 
of  being  always  up  to  the  mark  at  a  certain  hour 
every  day  is,  she  owns,  a  great  strain  even  when  she 
is  well,  and  quite  impossible  when  she  is  ill. 

Some  years  ago,  when  she  was  even  younger  than 
she  is  now,  and  not  overburdened  with  this  world's 
gold,  she  was  acting  at  the  Vaudeville.  It  was  her 
custom  to  go  home  every  evening  in  an  omnibus. 
One  particularly  cold  night  she  jumped  into  the  two- 
horse  vehicle  and  huddled  herself  up  in  the  farthest 
corner,  thinking  it  would  be  warmer  there  than  nearer 
the  door  in  such  bitter  weather.  She  pulled  her 
fur  about  her  neck,  and  sat  motionless  and  quiet. 
Presently  two  women  at  the  other  end  arrested  her 
attention  ;  one  was  nudging  the  other,  and  saying  : 

"  It  is  'er,  I  tell  yer  ;    I  know  it's  'er." 

*'  Nonsense,  it  ain't  'er  at  all  ;  she  couldn't  have 
got  out  of  the  theayter  so  quick." 

"  It  is  'er,  I  tell  yer  ;    just  look  at  'er  again." 

The  other  looked, 

"  No  it  ain't  ;  she  was  all  laughing  and  fun,  and 
that  'ere  one  looks  quite  sulky." 

The  "  sulky  one,"  though  thoroughly  tired  and 
weary,  smiled  to  herself. 


48  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

I  asked  Miss  Emery  one  day  if  she  had  ever  been 
placed  in  any  awkward  predicament  on   the  stage. 

"  I  always  remember  one  occasion,"  she  replied, 
"  tragedy  at  the  time,  but  a  comedy  now,  perhaps. 
I  was  acting  with  Henry  Irving  in  the  States  when 
I  was  about  eighteen  or  nineteen,  and  felt  very  proud 
of  the  honour.  We  reached  Chicago.  Louis  XL 
was  the  play.  In  one  act — I  think  it  was  the  second 
— I  went  on  as  usual  and  did  my  part.  Having 
finished,  as  I  thought,  I  went  to  my  room  and  began 
to  wash  my  hands.  It  was  a  cold  night,  and  my 
lovely  white  hands  robbed  of  their  paint  were  blue. 
The  mixture  was  well  off  when  the  call  boy  shouted 
my  name.  Thinking  he  was  having  a  joke  I 
said  : 

'<  'All  right,   I'm  here.' 

"'But  Mr.   Irving  is  waiting  for  you.' 

'"Waiting  for  me  .^     Why,  the  act  isn't  half  over.' 

"  *  Come,  Miss  Emery,  come  quick,'  gasped  the 
boy,  pushing  open  the  door.  *  Mr.  Irving's  on  the 
stage  and  waiting  for  you.' 

"  Horrors  !  In  a  flash  I  remembered  I  had  two 
small  scenes  as  Marie  in  that  act,  and  usually  waited 
in  the  wing.  Had  I,  could  I  have  forgotten  the 
second  one  ^ 

"  With  wet  red  hands,  dry  white  arms,  my  dress 
not  properly  fastened  at  the  back,  towel  in  hand, 
along  the  passage  I  flew.  On  the  stage  was  poor 
Mr.  Irving  walking  about,  talking — I  know  not  what. 
On  I  rushed,  said  my  lines,  gave  him  my  lobster- 
coloured  wet  hand  to  kiss — a  pretty  contrast  to  my 


Pliolu  bv  H'indozv  c'-   Grove,  Baker  Street,  It'. 
MISS  WINIFRED  KMERV  AND  MR.  CVRIL  MAUDK  IN   "THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL. 


THEATRICAL   FOLK 


49 


ashen  cheeks,  and  when  the  curtain  fell,  I  dissolved 
in   tears. 

"Mr.  Irving  sent  for  me  to  his  room.  In  fear  and 
trembling  I  went. 

"  *  This  was  terrible,'  he  said.  '  How  did  it 
happen  ? ' 

"*I  forgot,  I  forgot,  why  I  know  not,  but  I  for- 
got,' I  said,  and  my  tears  flowed  again.  He  patted 
me  on  the  back. 

"'Never  mind,'  he  said  kindly,  'but  please  don't 
let  it  occur  again,' 

Once  when  I  was  talking  to  this  clever  little  lady 
the  conversation  turned  on  games. 

"Games!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  know  nothing  of 
them  :  as  a  child  I  never  had  time  to  play,  and 
when  I  was  sixteen  years  old  I  had  to  keep  myself 
and  my  family.  Of  late  years  I  have  been  far  too 
busy  even  to  take  up  golf." 

Mrs.  Maude  has  two  charming  daughters,  quaint, 
old-fashioned  little  creatures,  and  some  years  their 
junior  is  a  small  brother. 

The  two  girls  were  once  invited  to  a  fancy  dress 
ball  in  Harley  Street  :  it  happened  to  be  a  Saturday, 
and  therefore  matinee  day.  Their  mother  arranged 
their  dresses.  The  elder  was  to  wear  the  costume  of 
Lady  Teazle,  an  exact  replica  of  the  one  reproduced 
in  this  volume,  and  which  Mrs.  Maude  wore  when 
playing  that  part,  while  the  younger  was  to  be 
dressed  as  a  Dutch  bride,  also  a  copy  of  one  of  Miss 
Emery's  dresses  in  the  Black  Tulip.  They  all 
lunched    together,   and    as  the   mother  was  going  off 

4 


so  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

to  the  theatre,  she  told  the  nurse  to  see  that  the 
children  were  dressed  properly,  and  take  them  to  the 
house  at  a  certain  hour. 

"  Oh,  but,  mummy,  we  can't  go  unless  you  dress 
us,"  exclaimed  the  elder  child  ;  "  we  should  never 
be  right."  And  therefore  it  was  settled  that  the 
two  little  people  should  be  arrayed  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  final  touches,  and  then  driven  round 
by  way  of  the  Haymarket  Theatre,  so  that  their 
mother  might  attend  to  their  wigs,  earrings,  hat  or 
cap,  as  the  case  might  be. 

What  a  pretty  idea.  The  mother,  who  was  attract- 
ing rounds  of  applause  from  a  crowded  house  every 
time  she  went  on  the  stage,  running  back  to  her 
dressing-room  between  the  scenes,  to  drop  down  on 
her  knees  and  attend  to  her  little  girls,  so  that  they 
should  be  all  right  for  their  party. 

Admiring  the  costume  of  the  younger  one,  I 
said  : 

"  Why,  you  have  got  on  your  mother's  dress." 

"  No,  it's  not  mother's,"  she  replied.  "  It's  my 
dress,  and  my  shoes,  and  my  stockings — all  my  very 
own  ;  but  it's  mother's  gold  cap,  and  mother's  ear- 
rings, and  mother's  necklace,  and  mother's  apron — 
with  a  tuck  in,"  and  she  nodded  her  wise  little 
head. 

This  was  a  simple  child,  not  like  the  small 
American  girl  whose  mother  was  relating  wonderful 
stories  of  her  precocity  to  an  admiring  friend,  when 
a  shrill  voice  from  the  corner  called  out : 

"  But   you  haven't  told  the  last  clever  thing  I  said. 


THEATRICAL   FOLK  51 

mamma,"  evidently  wishing  none  of  her  brilliant  wit 
to  be  lost. 

They  looked  sweet,  those  two  children  of  Mrs. 
Maude's,  and  the  way  the  elder  one  attended  upon 
her  smaller  sister  was  pretty  to  see. 

In  a  charming  little  house  near  the  Brompton 
Oratory  Mrs.  Maude  lived  for  years,  surrounded 
by  her  family,  perfectly  content  in  their  society. 
She  is  in  every  sense  a  thoroughly  domesticated 
woman,  and  warmly  declares  she  "loves  housekeeping." 

One  cannot  imagine  a  happier  home  than  the 
Maudes',  and  no  more  charming  gentleman  walks  upon 
the  stage  than  this  well-known  descendant  of  many 
distinguished  army  men.  Mr.  Maude  was  at  Charter- 
house, one  of  our  best  public  schools,  and  is  a  most 
enthusiastic  old  Carthusian.  So  is  General  Baden- 
Powell,  whose  interest  in  the  old  place  went  so  far 
as  to  make  him  spend  his  last  night  in  England 
among  his  old  schoolfellows  at  the  City  Charter- 
house when  he  returned  invalided  on  short  leave 
from  the  Transvaal.  The  gallant  soldier  gave  an 
excellent  speech,  referring  to  Founders'  Day,  which 
they  were  then  commemorating,  and  delighted  his 
boy  hearers  and  "  Ancient  Brethren  "  equally. 

On  Charterhouse  anniversaries  Mr.  Maude  drops 
his  jester's  cap  and  solemnly,  long  stick  in  hand,  takes 
part  in  the  ceremony  at  the  old  Carthusian  Church 
made  popular  by  Thackeray's  Newcomes. 

Cyril  Maude  was  originally  intended  for  another 
profession,  but,  in  spite  of  family  opposition,  elected 
to    go    upon    the    stage,  and    as    his    parents   did   not 


52  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

approve  of  such  a  proceeding,  he  commenced  his 
theatrical  career  in  America,  where  he  went  through 
many  vicissitudes.  He  began  in  a  Shakespearian 
repertoire  company,  playing  through  the  Western 
mining  towns  of  the  States,  where  he  had  to  rough 
it  considerably. 

"  I  even  slept  on  a  bit  of  carpet  on  a  bar-room 
floor  one  night,"  he  said  ;  "  but  our  beautiful  company 
burst  up  in  'Frisco,  and  I  had  to  come  home  emigrant 
fashion,  nine  days  and  nine  nights  in  the  train,  with 
a  little  straw  mattress  for  my  bed,  and  a  small  tin 
can  to  hold  my  food.  They  were  somewhat  trying 
experiences,  yet  most  interesting,  and  gave  great 
opportunities  for  studying  mankind.  I  have  played 
in  every  conceivable  sort  of  play,  and  once  '  walked 
on'  for  months  made  up  as  Gladstone  in  a  burlesque, 
to  a  mighty  dreary  comic  song." 

So  Mr.  Maude,  like  the  rest  who  have  climbed  to 
the  top,  began  at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder,  and  has 
worked  his  way  industriously  up  to  his  present  position, 
which  he  has  held  at  the  Haymarket  since  1896, 
and  where — he  laughingly  says — he  hopes  to  die  in 
harness. 

Cyril  Maude  gives  rather  an  amusing  description 
of  his  first  theatrical  performance.  When  he  was  a 
boy  of  eighteen  his  family  took  a  house  at  Dieppe 
for  six  months,  and  he  was  sent  every  day  to  study 
French  with  Monsieur  le  Pasteur. 

^'  One  day,  when  I  had  been  working  with  him 
for  three  or  four  weeks,  he  asked  me  what  I  was 
going  to  make  my  profession. 


THEATRICAL   FOLK  53 

"  *  Comedien,'   I   replied. 

"  *  Comment  ?  Comedien  ?  Etes-vous  fou  ? '  he  ex- 
claimed, horrified  and  astounded  at  such  a  suggestion, 
and  added  more  gravely,  '  I  am  quite  sure  you  have 
not  the  slightest  idea  how  to  act  ;  so,  my  boy,  you 
had  better  put  such  a  ridiculous  idea  out  of  your 
head  and  stick  to  your  books.  Besides,  you  must 
choose  a  profession  fit  for  a  gentleman.' 

"  Of  course  I  felt  piqued,  and  as  I  walked  home 
that  evening  I  just  wondered  if  there  were  not  some 
way  by  which  I  could  show  the  old  man  that  I  could 
act  if  I  chose. 

"  The  Pasteur  had  a  resident  pupil  of  the  name  of 
Bishop,  a  nice  young  fellow,  and  to  him  I  related 
my  indignation. 

"  *  Of  course  you"  can  act,'  he  said  ;  so  between  us 
we  concocted  the  brilliant  idea  that  I  should  dress 
up  as  Bishop's  aunt  and  go  and  call  upon  the  Pasteur, 
with  the  ostensible  view  of  sending  another  nephew 
to  his  excellent  establishment.  Overjoyed  at  the 
scheme  I  ransacked  my  mother's  wardrobe,  and  finally 
dressed  myself  up  to  resemble  a  somewhat  lean, 
cadaverous  English  old  maid. 

*'  I  walked  down  the  street  to  the  house,  and  to 
my  joy  the  servant  did  not  recognise  me.  The  old 
man  received  me  with  great  cordiality  and  politeness. 
I  told  him  in  very  bad  French,  with  a  pronounced 
Cockney  accent,  that  I  was  thinking  of  sending 
another  of  my  nephews  to  him  if  he  had  room. 
At  this  suggestion  the  Pasteur  was  delighted,  took 
me    upstairs,    showed    me    all    the    rooms,   and    made 


54  BEHIND  THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

quite  a  fuss  over  me.  Then  he  called  '  my  nephew,' 
who  nearly  gave  the  show  away  by  choking  with 
laughter  when  I  affectionately  greeted  him  with  a  chaste 
salute.  This  was  the  only  part  of  the  business  I 
did  not  really  enjoy  !  As  we  were  coming  downstairs, 
the  Pasteur  well  in  front,  I  smiled — perhaps  I  winked 
— at  Bishop,  anyhow  I  slipped,  whereupon  the  polite 
old  gentleman  turned  round,  was  most  desole  at  the 
accident,  gave  me  his  arm,  and  assisted  me  most 
tenderly  all  the  rest  of  the  way  to  the  dining-room, 
his  wife  following  and  murmuring  : — 
"  '  Prenez  garde,  madame,  prenez  garde.' 
"  Having  arrived  at  the  salle-a-manger  the  dear  old 
Pasteur  said  he  would  leave  me  for  a  moment  with 
his  wife,  in  case  there  was  anything  I  might  like 
to  discuss  with  her,  and  to  my  horror  I  was  left 
closeted  with  madame,  nervously  fearing  she  might 
touch  on  subjects  fit  only  for  ladies'  ears,  but  not 
for  the  tender  years  of  my  manly  youth.  Needless 
to  say  I  escaped  from  her  clutches  as  quickly  as 
possible. 

"  For  two  days  I  kept  up  the  joke.  Then  it 
became  too  much  for  me,  and  as  we  were  busily 
working  at  French  verbs,  in  the  cure's  study,  I 
changed  my  voice  and  returned  to  the  old  lady's 
Cockney  French  intonations,  which  was  not  in  the 
least  difl^cult,  as  my  own  French  was  none  of  the 
brightest.  The  Pasteur  turned  round,  looked  hard 
at  me  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  back  to  the 
verbs.  I  awaited  another  opportunity,  and  began 
again.     This  time  he  almost  glared  at  me,  and  then, 


THEATRICAL   FOLK  55 

clapping  his  hands  to  his  head  and  bursting  into 
laughter,   he  exclaimed  : 

" '  Mais  c'etait  vous,  c'etait  vous  la  tante  de 
Bishop  ?  ' 

"  It  turned  out  he  had  written  that  morning  to 
Bishop's  real  aunt,  accepting  her  second  nephew  as 
a  pupil,  and  arranging  all  the  details  of  his  arrival. 
How  surprised  the  good  lady  must  have  been." 

June  3rd,  1899,  was  the  eleventh  anniversary  of 
Cyril  Maude  and  Winifred  Emery's  wedding  day, 
and  they  gave  a  delightful  little  luncheon  party  at 
their  pretty  house  in  Egerton  Crescent,  where  they 
then  lived.  The  host  certainly  looked  ridiculously 
young  to  have  been  married  eleven  years,  or  to  be 
the  father  of  the  big  girl  of  nine  and  the  smaller 
one  of  six  who  came  down  to  dessert. 

Their  home  was  a  very  cosy  one — not  big  or 
grand  in  those  days,  but  thoroughly  carried  out  on 
a  small  scale,  with  trees  in  the  gardens  in  front, 
trees  in  the  back-yard  behind,  and  the  aspect  was 
refreshing  on  that  frightfully  hot  Oaks  day. 

Winifred  Emery  had  a  new  toy — a  tiny  little  dog, 
so  small  that  it  could  curl  itself  up  quite  happily  in 
the  bottom  of  a  man's  top  hat,  but  yet  wicked 
enough  to  do  a  vast  amount  of  damage,  for  it  had 
that  morning  pulled  a  blouse  by  the  sleeves  from 
the  bed  to  the  floor,  and  had  calmly  dissevered  the 
lace  from  the  cambric. 

The  Maudes  are  a  most  unconventional  theatrical 
pair.  They  love  their  home  and  their  children,  and 
seem   to    wish   to   get    rid  of  every   remembrance    of 


56  BEHIND  THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

the  theatre  once  they  pass  their  own  front  door. 
And  yet  it  is  impossible  to  get  rid  of  the  theatre  in 
the  summer,  for  besides  having  eight  performances  a 
week  of  The  Man^uvres  of  Jane  at  that  time — 
which  was  doing  even  better  business  at  the  end  of 
nine  months  than  it  was  at  the  beginning — those 
unfortunate  people  were  giving  charity  performances 
every  week  for  seven  consecutive  weeks,  which  of 
course  necessitated  rehearsals  apart  from  the  perform- 
ances themselves.  Really  the  charity  distributed  by 
the  theatrical  world  is  enormous. 

We  had  a  delightful  luncheon  :  much  of  my 
time  was  spent  gazing  at  Miss  Ellaline  Terriss, 
who  is  even  prettier  off  the  stage  than  she  is  on. 

When  Mrs.  Maude  said  she  had  been  married 
for  eleven  years,  with  the  proudest  air  in  the  world 
Mrs.  Hicks  remarked  : 

"  And  we  have  been  married  nearly  six." 

But  certainly  to  look  at  Ellaline  Terriss  and 
Seymour  Hicks  made  it  seem  impossible  to  believe 
that  such  could  be  the  case.  Hard  work  seems  to 
agree  with  some  people,  and  the  incessant  labour  of 
the  stage  had  left  no  trace  on  these  young  couples. 

After  luncheon  the  Maudes'  eldest  little  girl  recited 
a  French  poem  she  had  learnt  at  school,  and  it  was 
quite  ridiculous  to  see  the  small  child  already  showing 
inherited  talent.  She  was  calm  and  collected,  and 
when  she  had  done  and  I  congratulated  her,  she  said 
in  the  simplest  way  in  the  world  : 

"  I  am  going  to  be  an  actress  when  I  am  grown  up, 
and  so  is  Baby,"   nodding  her  head  at  the  other  small 


THEATRICAL   FOLK  57 

thing  of  six,  for  the  boy  had  not  then  arrived  to 
usurp  "  Baby's  "  place. 

"Oh  yes,  so  am  I,"  said  little  six-year-old.  But 
when  I  asked  her  to  recite  something,  she  said  : 

"  I  haven't  learnt  yet,   but  I  shall  soon." 

The  Maudes  were  then  eagerly  looking  forward  to 
some  weeks'  holiday  which  they  always  enjoy  every 
autumn. 

"  I  like  a  place  where  I  need  not  wear  gloves,  and 
a  hat  is  not  a  necessity,"  she  said.  "  I  have  so  much 
dressing-up  in  my  life  that  it  is  a  holiday  to  be 
without  it." 

Somehow  the  conversation  turned  on  a  wedding  to 
which  they  had  just  been,  and  Winifred  Emery 
exclaimed  : 

"  I  love  going  to  weddings,  but  I  always  regret  I 
am  not  the  bride." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  her  husband,  "  that  would  be 
worse  than  the  Mormons.  However  many  husbands 
would  you  have  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  always  want  to  keep  my  own  old  husband, 
but  I  want  to  be  the  bride."  At  which  he  laughed 
immoderately,  and  said  : 

"  I  declare,  Winifred,  you  are  never  happy  unless 
you  are  playing  the  leading  lady." 

"  Of  course  not,"  she  retorted  ;  "  women  always 
appreciate  appreciation." 

They  were  much  amused  when  I  told  them  the 
story  of  my  small  boy,  who,  aged  about  seven,  was  to 
go  to  a  wedding  as  a  page  in  gorgeous  white  satin 
with  lace  ruffles  and  old  paste  buttons. 


58  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

"  I  don't  want  to  go,"  he  remarked  ;  "  I  hate 
weddings  " — for  he  had  officiated  twice  before.  Some- 
thing he  said  leading  me  to  suppose  he  was  a  little 
shy,  I   soothingly  answered  : 

"  Oh,  well,  every  one  will  be  so  busy  looking  at  the 
bride  that  they  will  never  look  at  you." 

To. which  the  small  gentleman  indignantly  replied  : 

"  If  they  aren't  even  going  to  look  at  me,  then  I 
don't  see  why  I  need  go  at  all  ! 

So  after  all  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  vanity  even 
in  a  small  boy  of  seven. 

"  I  cannot  bear  a  new  play,"  Mrs.  Maude  once 
said.  "  I  am  nervous,  worried,  and  anxious  at  re- 
hearsal, and  it  is  not  until  I  have  got  on  my  stage 
clothes  that  it  ceases  to  be  a  trouble  to  me.  Not 
till  I  have  played  it  for  weeks  that  I  feel  thoroughly 
at  home  in  a  iiQW  part. 

"  It  is  positively  the  first  real  holiday  I  have  ever 
had  in  my  life,"  she  exclaimed  to  me  at  the  time  of 
her  illness  ;  "  for  although  we  always  take  six  weeks' 
rest  in  the  summer,  plays  have  to  be  studied  and  work 
is  looming  ahead,  whereas  now  I  have  six  months  of 
complete  idleness  in  front  of  me.  It  is  splendid  to 
have  time  to  tidy  my  drawers  in  peace,  ransack  my 
bookshelves,  see  to  a  hundred  and  one  household 
duties  without  any  hurry,  have  plenty  of  time  to 
spend  with  the  children,  and  actually  to  see  something 
of  my  friends,  whom  it  is  impossible  to  meet  often 
in  my   usually  busy  life." 

So  spoke  Miss  Winifred  Emery,  and  a  year  later 
Mrs.    Kendal    wrote,    '*  I've    had    ten    days'    holiday 


THEATRICAL   FOLK  59 

this  year,  and  am  now  rehearsing  literally  day  and 
night." 

After  that  who  can  say  the  life  of  the  successful 
actress  is  not  a  grind  ?  A  maidservant  or  shopgirl 
expects  her  fortnight's  holiday  in  a  twelvemonth,  while 
one  of  the  most  successful  actresses  of  modern  times 
has  to  be  content  with  ten  days  during  the  same 
period.  Yet  Mrs.  Kendal  is  not  a  girl  or  a  beginner, 
she  is  in  full  power  and  at  the  top  of  her  profession. 

All  theatrical  life  is  not  a  grind,  however,  and  it 
has  its  brighter  moments.  For  instance,  one  beautiful 
warm  sunny  afternoon,  the  anniversary  of  their  own 
wedding  day — the  Cyril  Maudes  gave  an  "  At  Home  " 
at  the  Haymarket.  Guests  arrived  by  the  stage 
door  at  the  back  of  the  famous  theatre,  and  to 
their  surprise  found  themselves  at  once  upon  the 
stage,  for  the  back  scene  and  Suffolk  Street  are 
almost  identical.  Mrs.  Maude,  with  a  dear  little 
girl  on  either  side,  received  her  friends,  and  an  in- 
teresting group  of  friends  they  were.  Every  one 
who  was  any  one  seemed  to  have  been  bidden  thither. 
The  stage  was,  of  course,  not  large  enough  for  this 
goodly  throng,  so  a  great  staircase  had  been  built  down 
from  the  footlights  to  where  the  stalls  usually  stand. 
The  stalls,  however,  had  gone — disappeared  as  though 
they  had  never  existed — and  where  the  back  row 
generally  cover  the  floor  a  sumptuous  buffet  was 
erected.  It  was  verily  a  fairy  scene,  for  the  dress- 
circle  (which  at  the  Haymarket  is  low  down)  was  a 
sort  of  winter  garden  of  palms  and  flowers  behind 
which  the  band  was  ensconced. 


6o  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

What  would  the  players  of  old,  Charles  Mathews, 
Colley  Gibber,  Edmund  Kean,  Liston,  and  Golman, 
have  said  to  such  a  sight  ?  What  would  old  Mr. 
Emery  have  thought  could  he  have  known  that 
one  day  his  grand-daughter  would  reign  as  a  very 
queen  on  the  scene  of  his  former  triumphs  ?  What 
would  he  have  said  had  he  known  that  periwigs 
and  old  stage  coaches  would  have  disappeared  in 
favour  of  closely-cut  heads,  electric  broughams,  shilling 
hansoms  with  G  springs  and  rubber  tyres,  or  motor 
cars  ?  What  would  he  have  thought  of  the  electric 
light  in  place  of  candle  dips  and  smelling  lamps  ? 
How  surprised  he  would  have  been  to  find  neatly 
coated  men  showing  the  audience  to  their  seats  at  a 
performance,  instead  of  fat  rowdy  women,  to  see  the 
orange  girls  and  their  baskets  superseded  by  dainty 
trays  of  tea  and  ices,  and  above  all  to  note  the 
decorous  behaviour  of  a  modern  audience  in  contrast 
to  the  noisy  days  when  Grandpapa  Emery  trod  the 
Haymarket  boards. 

Almost  the  most  youthful  person  present,  if  one 
dare  judge  by  appearances,  was  the  actor-manager, 
Gyril  Maude.  There  is  something  particularly  charm- 
ing about  Mr.  Maude — there  is  a  merry  twinkle  in  his 
eyes,  with  a  sound  of  tears  in  his  voice,  and  it  is  this 
combination,  doubtless,  which  charms  his  audience. 
He  is  a  low  comedian,  a  character-actor,  and  yet  he 
can  play  on  the  emotional  chord  when  necessity  arises. 
He  and  his  co-partner,  Mr.  Harrison,  are  warm 
friends — a  delightful  situation  for  people  so  closely 
allied  in  business. 


THEATRICAL   FOLK  6i 

Immediately  off  the  stage  is  the  green-room,  now 
almost  unused.  Formerly  the  old  green-room  on  the 
other  side  of  the  stage  was  a  fashionable  resort,  and 
the  green-rooms  at  the  Haymarket  and  Drury  Lane 
were  crowded  nightly  at  the  beginning  of  the  last 
century  with  all  the  fashionable  men  of  the  day. 
Kings  went  there  to  be  amused,  plays  began  at  any 
time,  the  waits  between  the  acts  were  of  any  length, 
and  general  disorder  reigned  in  the  candle  and  oil- 
lighted  theatres — a  disorder  to  which  a  few  visitors 
did  not  materially  add.  All  is  changed  nowadays. 
The  play  begins  to  the  minute,  and  ends  with  equal 
regularity.  Actors  do  not  fail  to  appear  without  due 
notice,  so  that  the  under-study  has  time  to  get  ready, 
and  order  reigns  both  before  and  behind  the  footlights. 
Therefore  at  the  Haymarket  no  one  is  admitted  to 
the  green-room,  in  fact,  no  one  is  allowed  in  the 
theatre  "  behind  the  scenes  "  at  all,  except  to  the 
dressing-room  of  the  particular  star  who  has  invited 
him  thither. 

Mrs.  Maude  made  a  charming  hostess  at  that  party. 

I  think  the  hour  at  which  we  were  told  on  the 
cards  *' to  leave  "  was  6.0,  or  it  may  have  been  6.30  ; 
at  any  rate,  we  all  streamed  out  reluctantly  at  the 
appointed  time,  and  the  stage  carpenters  streamed  in. 
Away  went  the  palms,  off  came  the  bunting,  down 
came  the  staircase,  and  an  hour  later  the  evening 
audience  were  pouring  in  to  the  theatre,  little 
knowing  what  high  revelry  had  so  lately  ended. 

Some  people  seem  to  be  born  old,  others  live 
long  and  die  young  ;   judging  by  their  extraordinary 


62  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

juvenility,  Mr.  Seymour  Hicks  and  his  charming  wife, 
nee  Ellaline  Terriss,  belong  to  the  latter  category. 
They  are  a  boyish  man  and  a  girlish  woman,  in  the 
best  sense  of  lighthearted  youthfulness,  yet  they  have  a 
record  of  successes  behind  them,  of  which  many  well 
advanced  in  years  might  be  proud.  No  daintier, 
prettier,  more  piquante  little  lady  trips  upon  our  stage 
than  Ellaline  Terriss.  She  is  the  personification  of 
everything  mignonne,  and  whether  dressed  in  rags  as 
Bluebell  in  Fairyland^  or  as  a  smart  lady  in  a  modern 
play,  she  is  delightful. 

It  is  a  curious  thing  that  so  many  of  our  prominent 
actors  and  actresses  have  inherited  their  histrionic 
talents  from  their  parents  and  even  grandparents,  and 
Mrs.  Hicks  is  no  exception,  for  she  is  the  daughter  of 
the  late  well-known  actor,  William  Terriss.  She  was 
not  originally  intended  for  the  stage,  and  her  adoption 
of  it  as  a  profession  was  almost  by  chance.  A  letter  of 
her  own  describes  how  this  came  about. 

*'  I  was  barely  sixteen  when  Mr.  Calmour,  who 
wrote  The  aAmber  Heart  and  named  the  heroine  after 
me,  suggested  we  should  surprise  my  father  one  day 
by  playing  Cupid's  Messenger  in  our  drawing-room,  and 
that  I  should  take  the  leading  part.  We  had  a  brass 
rod  fixed  up  across  the  room,  and  thus  made  a  stage, 
and  on  the  preceding  night  informed  a  few  friends 
of  the  morrow's  performance.  The  news  greatly 
astonished  my  father,  who  laughed.  I  daresay  he  was 
secretly  pleased,  though  he  pretended  not  to  be.  A 
couple  of  months  passed,  and  I  heard  that  Miss  Freke 
was  engaged   at   the    Haymarket  to    play   the  part   I 


THEATRICAL  FOLK  63 

had  sustained.  Oh,  how  I  wished  it  was  I  !  Little 
did  I  think  my  wish  was  so  near  fulfilment.  I  was 
sitting  alone  over  the  fire  one  day  when  a  telegram 
was  handed  to  me,  which  ran  : 

"  *  Haymarket  Theatre.  Come  up  at  once.  Tlay 
Cupid's  Messenger^  to-night.'' 

"  I  rushed  to  catch  a  train,  and  found  myself  at  the 
stage  door  of  the  theatre  at  7.15  p.m.  All  was  hurry 
and  excitement.  I  did  not  know  how  to  make-up. 
I  did  not  know  with  whom  I  was  going  to  appear, 
and  Miss  Freke's  dress  was  too  large  for  me.  The 
whole  affair  seemed  like  a  dream.  However,  I  am 
happy  to  say  Mr.  Tree  stood  by  and  saw  me  act,  and 
I  secured  the  honour  of  a  '  call.'  I  played  for  a 
week,  when  Mr.  Tree  gave  me  a  five-pound  note, 
and  a  sweet  letter  of  thanks.  My  father  then  said 
that  if  it  would  add  to  my  happiness  I  might  go  on 
the  stage,  and  he  would  get  me  an  engagement." 

How  proud  the  girl  must  have  been  of  that  five- 
pound  note,  for  any  person  who  has  ever  earned  even 
a  smaller  sum  knows  how  much  sweeter  money  seems 
when  acquired  by  one's  own  exertions.  Five-pound 
notes  have  come  thick  and  fast  since  then,  but  I  doubt 
if  any  gave  the  actress  so  much  pleasure  as  Mr. 
Beerbohm  Tree's  first  recoofnition  of  her  talent. 

Thus  it  really  was  quite  by  accident  Miss  Terriss 
entered  on  a  theatrical  career.  Her  father,  knowing 
the  hard  work  and  many  disappointments  attendant 
on  stage  life,  had  not  wished  his  daughter  to  follow 
his  own  calling.     But    talent    will    out.      It    waits    its 


64  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

opportunity,  and  then,  like  love,  asserts  itself.  The 
opportunity  came  in  a  kindly  way  ;  the  talent  was 
there,  and  Miss  Terriss  was  clever  and  keen  enough 
to  take  her  chance  when  it  came  and  make  the  most 
of  it.  From  that  moment  she  has  never  been  idle, 
even  her  holidays  have  been  few  and  far  between. 

Every  one  in  London  must  have  seen  Bluebell  in 
Fairyland^  which  ran  nearly  a  year.  Indeed,  at  one 
time  it  was  being  played  ten  times  a  week.  Think 
of  it.  Ten  times  a  week.  To  go  through  the  same 
lines,  the  same  songs,  the  same  dances,  to  look  as 
if  one  were  enjoying  oneself,  to  enter  into  the  spirit 
and  fun  of  the  representation,  was  indeed  a  herculean 
task,  and  one  which  the  Vaudeville  company  success- 
fully carried  through.  But  poor  Mrs.  Hicks  broke 
down  towards  the  close,  and  was  several  times  out  of 
the  bill. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  Seymour  Hicks  will  be  better 
known  as  an  actor  or  an  author  in  the  future,  for 
he  has  worked  hard  at  both  professions  successfully. 
He  was  born  at  St.  Heliers,  Jersey,  in  1871,  and  is 
the  eldest  son  of  Major  Hicks,  of  the  42nd  High- 
landers. His  father  intended  him  for  the  army,  but 
his  own  taste  did  not  lie  in  that  direction,  and  when 
only  sixteen  and  a  half  he  elected  to  go  upon  the 
stage,  and  five  years  later  was  playing  a  principal  light 
comedy  part  at  the  Gaiety  Theatre.  Like  his  wife, 
he  has  been  several  times  in  America,  where  both  have 
met  with  success,  and  when  not  acting,  at  which 
he  is  almost  constantly  employed,  this  energetic  man 
occupies    his    time    by    writing  plays,   of  a    light    and 


Photo  by  Loudon  Stiiroscopic  Co.,  Ltd.,  Chcaf'sidc,  E.C. 

MR.    AND    MRS.    SEYMOUR    IIKKS. 


THEATRICAL   FOLK  65 

musical  nature,  which  are  usually  successful.  One 
of  the  Best,  Under  the  Clock,  The  Runaway  Girl,  Blue- 
bell in  Fairyland^  and  The  Cherry  Girl  have  all  had 
long  runs. 

When  the  Hicks  find  time  for  a  holiday  their  idea 
of  happiness  is  an  out-of-door  existence,  with  rod  or 
gun  for  companions.  Most  of  our  actors  and  actresses, 
whose  lives  are  necessarily  so  public,  love  the  quiet 
of  the  country  coupled  with  plenty  of  exercise  when 
able  to  take  a  change.  The  theatre  is  barely  closed 
before  they  rush  off  to  moor  or  fen,  to  yacht  or 
golf — to  anything,  in  fact,  that  carries  them  completely 
away  from  the  glare  of  the  footlights. 

Another  instance  of  theatrical  heredity  is  Ben 
Webster,  whose  talent  for  acting  doubtless  comes 
from  his  grandfather.  Originally  young  Ben  read 
for  the  Bar  with  that  eminent  and  amusing  man, 
Mr.  Montagu  Williams.  It  was  just  at  that  time  that 
poor  Montagu  Williams's  throat  began  to  trouble 
him  :  later  on,  when  no  longer  able  to  plead  in  court, 
he  was  given  an  appointment  as  magistrate.  I  only 
remember  meeting  him  once — it  was  at  Ramsgate. 
When  walking  along  the  Esplanade  one  day — I  think 
about  the  year  1890 — I  found  my  father  talking  to 
a  neat,  dapper  little  gentleman  in  a  fur  coat,  thickly 
muffled  about  the  throat.  He  introduced  his  friend 
as  Montagu  Williams,  a  name  very  well  known  at 
that  time.  Alas !  the  eminent  lawyer  was  hardly 
able  to  speak — disease  had  assailed  his  throat  well- 
nigh  to  death,  and  the  last  time  I  saw  that  wonderful 
painter  and  charming    man  Sir  John  Everett  Millais, 

5 


66  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

at  a  private  view  at  the  Royal  Academy,  he  was 
almost  as  speechless,  poor  soul. 

Well,  Montagu  Williams  was  made  a  magistrate, 
and  young  Ben  Webster,  realising  his  patron's  in- 
fluence was  to  a  certain  extent  gone,  and  his  own 
chances  at  the  Bar  consequently  diminished,  gladly 
accepted  an  offer  of  Messrs.  Hare  and  Kendal  to  play 
a  companion  part  to  his  sister  in  the  Scrap  of  Paper^ 
then  on  tour.  He  had  often  acted  as  an  amateur  ;  and 
earned  some  little  success  during  his  few  weeks'  pro- 
fessional engagement,  so  that  when  he  returned  to  town 
and  found  Montagu  Williams  removed  from  active 
practice  at  the  Bar,  he  went  at  once  to  Mr,  Hare 
and  asked  for  the  part  of  Woodstock  in  Clancarty. 
Thus  he  launched  himself  upon  the  stage,  although  his 
grandfather  had  been  dead  for  three  years,  and  so  had 
not  directly  had  anything  to  do  with  his  getting  there. 

Old  Grandfather  Ben  seems  to  have  been  a  very 
irascible  old  gentleman,  and  a  decidedly  obstinate  one. 
On  one  occasion  his  obstinacy  saved  his  life,  however, 
so  his  medical  man  stoutly  declared. 

The  doctor  had  given  Ben  Webster  up  :  he  was 
dying.  Chatterton  and  Churchill  were  outside  the 
room  where  he  lay,  and  the  medico  when  leaving  told 
them  *'  old  Ben  couldn't  last  an  hour," 

"Ah,  dear,  dear  !"  said  Chatterton  ;  "  poor  old  Ben 
going  at  last,"  and  he  sadly  nodded  his  head  as  he 
entered  the  room. 

"  Blast  ye  !  I'm  not  dead  yet,"  roared  a  voice  from 
the  bed,  where  old  Ben  was  sitting  bolt  upright.  *'  I'm 
not  going  to  die  to  please  any   of  you." 


THEATRICAL   FOLK  67 

He  fell  back  gasping  ;  but  from  that  moment  he 
began  to  get  better. 

Another  eminent  theatrical  family,  the  Sotherns, 
were  born  on  the  stage,  so  to  speak,  and  took  to 
the  profession  as  naturally  as  ducks  to  water,  while 
their  contemporaries  the  Irvings  and  Boucicaults  have 
done  likewise. 

It  must  have  been  towards  the  end  of  the  seventies 
that  my  parents  took  a  house  one  autumn  in  Scar- 
borough. We  had  been  to  Buxton  for  my  father's 
health,  and  after  a  driving  tour  through  Derbyshire, 
finally  arrived  at  our  destination.  To  my  joy,  Mr. 
Sothern  and  his  daughter,  who  was  then  my  school- 
fellow in  London,  soon  appeared  upon  the  scene.  He 
had  come  in  consequence  of  an  engagement  to  play  at 
the  Scarborough  Theatre  in  'Dundreary  and  Garricky 
and  had  secured  a  house  near  us.  Naturally  I  spent 
much  of  my  time  with  my  girl  friend,  and  we  used 
often  to  accompany  her  father  in  a  boat  when  he 
went  on  his  dearly-loved  fishing  expeditions.  Never 
was  there  a  merrier,  more  good-natured,  pleasanter 
gentleman  than  this  actor.  He  was  always  making 
fun  which  we  children  enjoyed  immensely.  Practical 
jokes  to  him  seemed  the  essence  of  life,  and  I  vaguely 
remember  incidents  which,  though  amusing  to  him, 
rather  perturbed  my  juvenile  mind.  At  the  time  I 
had  been  very  little  to  theatres,  but  as  he  had  a  box 
reserved  every  night,  I  was  allowed  now  and  then 
to  go  and  gaze  in  wild  admiration  at  Garrick  and 
Dundreary. 

One   afternoon   I  went  to   the  Sotherns  for  a  meat 


68  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

tea  before  proceeding  to  the  theatre,  but  the  great 
comedian  was  not  there.  "  Pops,"  for  so  he  was 
called  by  his  family,  had  gone  out  at  four  o'clock  that 
morning  with  a  fisherman,  and  still  remained  absent. 
The  weather  had  turned  rough,  and  considerable 
anxiety  was  felt  as  to  what  could  have  become  of  him. 
His  eldest  son,  Lytton,  since  dead,  appeared  especially 
distressed.  He  had  been  down  to  the  shore  to  inquire 
of  the  boatmen,  but  nothing  could  be  heard  of  his 
father.  We  finished  our  meal — Mr.  Sothern's  having 
been  sent  down  to  be  kept  warm — and  although  he 
had  not  appeared,  it  was  time  to  go  to  the  theatre. 
Much  perturbed  in  his  mind,  Lytton  escorted  his  sister 
and  myself  thither,  and  leaving  us  in  the  box,  went 
off  once  more  to  inquire  if  his  father  had  arrived  at 
the  stage  door  ;  again  without  success. 

This  seemed  alarming  ;  the  wind  was  still  boisterous 
and  the  stage  manager  in  a  fright  because  he  knew 
the  only  attraction  to  his  audience  was  the  appearance 
of  Edward  Sothern  as  Lord  Dundreary.  It  was  the 
height  of  the  season,  and  the  house  was  packed. 
Lytton  started  off  again  to  the  beach,  this  time  in  a 
cab  ;  the  stage  manager  popped  his  head  into  our 
box  to  inquire  if  the  missing  hero  had  by  chance 
arrived,  the  orchestra  struck  up,  but  still  no  Mr. 
Sothern.  It  was  a  curious  experience.  The  "gods" 
became  uneasy,  the  pit  began  to  stamp,  the  orchestra 
played  louder,  and  at  last,  dreading  a  sudden  tumult, 
the  stage  manager  stepped  forward  and  began 
to  explain  that  "  Mr.  Sothern,  a  devoted  fisherman, 
had  gone  out  at  four  o'clock  that  morning  ;  but  had 


THEATRICAL   FOLK  69 

failed  to  "return.  As  they  knew,  the  weather  was 
somewhat  wild,  therefore,  they  could  only  suppose  he 
had  been  detained  by  the  storm " 

At  this  juncture  an  unexpected  and  dishevelled 
figure  appeared  on  the  scene.  The  usually  spick- 
and-span,  carefully  groomed  Mr.  Sothern,  with  his 
white  locks  dripping  wet  and  hanging  like  those  of  a 
terrier  dog  over  his  eyes,  hurried  up,  exclaiming  : 

"  I  am  here,  I  am  here.  Will  be  ready  in  a  minute," 
and  the  weird  apparition  disappeared  through  the 
opposite  wing.  Immense  relief  and  some  amusement 
kept  the  audience  in  good  humour,  while  with 
almost  lightning  rapidity  the  actor  changed  and  the 
play  began. 

In  one  of  the  scenes  the  hero  goes  to  bed  and 
draws  the  curtain  to  hide  him  from  the  audience.  Mr. 
Sothern  went  to  bed  as  usual,  but  when  remarks 
should  have  been  heard  proceeding  from  behind  the 
curtain,  no  sound  was  forthcoming.  The  other  player 
went  on  with  his  part  ;  still  silence  from  the  bed.  The 
stage  manager  became  alarmed,  knowing  that  Sothern 
was  terribly  fatigued  and  had  eaten  but  little  food,  he 
tore  a  small  hole  in  the  canvas  which  composed  the 
wall  of  the  room,  and,  peeping  through,  saw  to  his 
horror  that  the  actor  was  fast  asleep.  This  was  an 
awkward  situation.  He  called  him — no  response. 
The  poor  man  on  the  stage  still  gagged  on  gazing 
anxiously  behind  him  for  a  response,  till  at  last, 
getting  desperate,  the  stage  manager  seized  a  broom 
and  succeeded  in  poking  Sothern's  ribs  with  the 
handle.     The   actor  awoke  with  a   huge  yawn,   quite 


70  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

surprised  to  find  himself  in  bed  wearing  Dundreary 
whiskers,  which  proved  a  sharp  reminder  he  ought 
to  have  been  performing  antics  on  the  stage. 

Actor  and  fisherman  had  experienced  a  terrible 
time  in  their  boat.  The  current  was  so  strong  that 
when  they  turned  to  come  back  they  were  borne 
along  the  coast,  and  as  hour  after  hour  passed  poor 
Sothern  realised  that  not  only  might  he  not  be  able 
to  keep  his  appointment  at  the  theatre,  but  was  in 
peril  of  ever  getting  back  any  more.  He  made  all 
sorts  of  mental  vows  never  to  go  out  fishing  again 
when  he  was  due  to  play  at  night ;  never  to  risk 
being  placed  in  such  an  awkward  predicament,  never 
to  do  many  things  ;  but  in  spite  of  this  experience,  when 
once  safe  on  land,  his  ardour  was  not  damped,  for  he 
was  off  fishing  again  the  very  next  day. 

When  I  went  to  America  in  1 900  Mrs,  Kendal 
kindly  gave  me  some  introductions,  and  one  among 
others  to  Mr.  Frohman.  His  is  a  name  to  conjure 
with  in  theatrical  circles  on  that  side  of  the  Atlantic, 
and  is  becoming  so  on  this  side,  for  he  controls  a 
vast  theatrical  trust  which  either  makes  or  mars 
stage  careers. 

I  called  one  morning  by  appointment  at  Daly's 
Theatre,  and  as  there  happened  to  be  no  rehearsal 
in  progress  all  was  still  except  at  the  box  office. 
I  gave  my  card,  and  was  immediately  asked  to  "  step 
along  to  Mr.   Frohman's  room." 

Up  dark  stairs  and  along  dimly  lighted  passages 
I  followed  my  conductor,  till  he  flung  open  the  door 
of  a    beautiful   room,   where   at   a    large    writing-table 


THEATRICAL   FOLK  71 

sat  Mr.  Frohman.  He  rose  and  received  me  most 
kindly,  and  was  full  of  questions  concerning  the 
Kendals  and  other  mutual  friends,  when  suddenly,  to 
my  surprise,  I  saw  a  large  photograph  hanging  on 
the  wall,  of  a  Hamlet  whose  face  I  seemed  to  know. 

"  Who  is  that  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Mr,  Edward  Sothern,  the  greatest  Hamlet  in 
America,  the  son  of  the  famous  Dundreary." 

"  I  had  the  pleasure  of  playing  with  that  Hamlet 
many  times  when  I  was  a  litde  girl,"  I  remarked  ; 
"  for  although  '  Eddy  '  was  somewhat  older,  he  used 
often  to  come  to  the  nursery  in  Harley  Street  to 
have  games  with  us  children  when  his  mother  lived 
a  {qw  doors  from  the  house  in  which  1  was  born." 

Mr.  Frohman  was  interested,  and  so  was  I,  to  hear 
of  the  great  success  of  young  Edward  Sothern,  for 
of  course  Sam  Sothern  is  well  known  on  the  Eng-lish 
stage. 

The  sumptuous  office  of  Mr.  Frohman  is  at  the 
back  of  Daly's  Theatre,  ft  is  a  difficult  matter  to 
gain  admittance  to  that  sacred  chamber,  but  pre- 
liminaries having  been  arranged,  the  attendant  who 
conducts  one  thither  rings  a  bell  to  inform  the  great 
man  that  his  visitor  is  about  to  enter.  Mr.  Frohman 
was  interesting  and  affiible.  He  evidently  possesses  a 
fine  taste,  for  pieces  of  ancient  armour,  old  brocade, 
and  the  general  air  of  a  bric-a-brac  shop  pervaded 
his  sitting-room. 

"  English  actors  are  as  successful  over  here,"  he 
said,  "  as  Americans  are  in  London,  and  the  same  may 
be  said  of  plays,  the  novelty,  I  suppose,  in  each  case." 


72  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

The  close  alliance  between  England  and  America 
is  becoming  more  emphasised  every  day.  Why,  in  the 
matter  of  acting  alone  we  give  them  our  best  and 
they  send  us  their  best  in  return.  So  much  is  this 
the  case  that  most  of  the  people  mentioned  in  these 
pages  are  as  well  known  in  New  York  as  in  London  ; 
for  instance,  Sir  Henry  Irving,  Miss  Ellen  Terry, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kendal,  Mr.  Weedon  Grossmith,  Mr. 
E.  S.  Willard,  Miss  Fay  Davis,  Madame  Sarah 
Bernhardt,  Miss  Winifred  Emery,  Mr.  Cyril  Maude, 
Miss  Ellaline  Terriss,  Mr.  Seymour  Hicks,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Beerbohm  Tree,  Mr.  W.  S.  Gilbert,  Mr.  Anthony 
Hope,  Mr.  A.  W.  Pinero,  and  a  host  of  others.  Sir 
Henry  Irving  has  gone  to  America,  for  the  eighth 
time  during  the  last  twenty  years,  with  his  entire 
company.  That  company  for  the  production  of 
Dante  consists  of  eighty-two  persons,  and  no  fewer 
than  six  hundred  and  seventy-three  packages,  com- 
prising scenery,  dresses,  and  properties. 

"  No  author  should  ever  try  to  dramatise  his  own 
books  :  he  nearly  always  fails,"  Mr.  Frohman  added 
later  during  our  pleasant  Httle  chat,  after  which  he 
took  me  round  his  theatre,  probably  the  most 
celebrated  in  the  United  States,  for  it  was  built  by 
the  famous  Daly,  and  still  maintains  its  position  at 
the  head  of  affairs.  On  the  whole,  American  theatres 
are  smaller  than  our  own,  the  entire  floor  is  composed 
of  stalls  which  only  cost  8j".  j^d.  each,  and  there  is 
no  pit.  In  the  green-room,  halls,  and  passages  Mr. 
Frohman  pointed  out  with  evident  delight  various 
pictures  of  Booth  as  Hamlet,  since  whose  time  no  one 


THEATRICAL   FOLK  73 

had  been  so  successful  till  Edward  Sothern  junior 
took  up  that  role  in  1900.  There  was  also  a  large 
portrait  of  Charlotte  Cushman,  and  several  pictures 
of  Irving,  Ellen  Terry,  Jefferson,  and  others,  as  well 
as  some  photographs  of  my  old  friend  Mr.  Sothern. 

I  have  quoted  the  Terrys,  Kendals,  Ellaline  Terriss, 
Ben  Webster,  Winifred  Emery,  and  the  Sotherns  as 
products  of  the  stage,  but  there  are  many  more,  in- 
cluding Dion  and  Nina  Boucicault,  whose  parents  were 
a  well-known  theatrical  couple,  George  and  Weedon 
Grossmith,  the  sons  of  an  entertainer,  and  George's 
son  is  also  on  the  stage.  Both  the  Irvings  are  sons 
of  Sir  Henry  of  that  ilk,  and  so  on  ad  infinitum. 

From  the  above  list  it  will  be  seen  that  most  of 
our  successful  actors  and  actresses  were  cradled  in  the 
profession.  They  were  "  mummers "  in  the  blood, 
if  one  may  be  forgiven  the  use  of  such  a  quaint  old 
word  to  represent  the  modern  exponents  of  the 
drama. 


CHAPTER   IV 

FLAYS  AND    PLAYWRIGHTS 

Interview  with  Ibsen— His  Appearance — His  Home — Plays  Without 
Plots — His  Writing-table — His  Fetiches — Old  at  Seventy— A  Real 
Tragedy  and  Comedy — Ibsen's  First  Book — Winter  in  Norway — 
An  Epilogue — Arthur  Wing  Pinero— Educated  for  the  Law — As 
Caricaturist—  An  Entertaining  Luncheon — How  Pinero  writes  his 
Plays — A  Hard  Worker — First  Night  of  Leity. 

PROBABLY  the  man  who  has  had  the  most 
far-reaching  influence  on  modern  drama  is 
Henrik  Ibsen  Half  the  dramatic  world  of  Europe 
admire  his  work  as  warmly  as  the  other  half 
deplore  it. 

Ibsen  has  a  strange  personality.  The  Norwegian 
is  not  tall,  on  the  contrary,  rather  short  and  thick- 
set— one  might  almost  say  stout — in  build,  broad- 
shouldered,  and  with  a  stooping  gait.  His  head  is 
splendid,  the  long  white  hair  is  a  glistening  mass 
of  tangled  locks.  He  has  an  unusually  high  forehead, 
and  in  true  Norse  fashion  wears  his  plentiful 
hair  brushed  straight  back,  so  that,  being  long,  it 
forms  a  complete  frame  for  the  face.  He  has  whiskers, 
which,  meeting  in  the  middle,  beneath  his  chin,  leave 
the  chin  and  mouth  bare.  Under  the  upper  lip  one 
sees    by    the    indentation   the   decision  of  the  mouth, 

74 


PLAYS   AND   PLAYWRIGHTS  75 

and  the  determination  of  those  thin  lips,  which  through 
age  are  slightly  drawn  to  one  side.  He  has  a  pleasant 
smile  when  talking  ;  but  in  repose  the  mouth  is  so 
firmly  set  that  the  upper  lip  almost  disappears. 

The  great  dramatist  has  lived  for  many  years  in 
Christiania,  and  it  was  in  that  town,  on  a  cold  snowy 
morning  in  1895  ^  ^^^^  ^^^  him.  The  streets  were 
completely  buried  in  snow  ;  even  the  tram-lines,  despite 
all  the  care  bestowed  upon  them,  were  embedded  six 
or  seven  inches  below  the  surface  of  the  frozen  mass. 
It  can  be  very  cold  during  winter  in  Christiania, 
and  frost-bite  is  not  unknown,  for  the  themometer  runs 
down  many  degrees  below  zero.  That  is  the  time  to 
see  Norway.  Then  everything  is  at  its  best.  The 
sky  clear,  the  sun  shining — all  Nature  bright,  crisp, 
and  beautiful.  Icicles  many  feet  long  hung  like  a 
sparkling  fringe  in  the  sunlight  as  I  walked — or  rather 
stumbled — over  the  snow  to  the  Victorian  Terrasse 
to  see  the  celebrated  man.  Tall  posts  leaning  from 
the  street  gutters  to  the  houses  reminded  pedestrians 
that  deep  snow  from  the  roofs  might  fall  upon 
them. 

The  name  of  Dr.  Henrik  Ibsen  was  written  in 
golden  letters  at  the  entrance  to  the  house,  with  the 
further  information  that  he  lived  on  the  first  floor. 
There  was  nothing  grand  about  his  home,  just  an 
ordinary  Norwegian  flat,  containing  eight  or  ten  good 
rooms  ;  and  yet  Ibsen  is  a  rich  man.  His  books 
have  been  translated  into  every  tongue,  his  plays 
performed  on  every  stage.  His  work  has  undoubtedly 
revolutionised  the  drama.      He  started  the  idea  of  a 


76  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

play  without  plot,  a  character-sketch  in  fact,  a  psycho- 
logical study,  and  introduced  the  "  no-ending  "  system. 
Much  he  left  to  the  imagination,  and  the  imagination 
of  various  nationahties  has  run  in  such  dissimilar  lines 
that  he  himself  became  surprised  at  the  thoughts  he 
was  supposed  to  have  suggested. 

BriUiant  as  much  of  his  work  undoubtedly  is,  there 
is  quite  as  much  which  is  repellent  and  certainly  has 
not  added  to  the  betterment  of  mankind.  His  cha- 
racters are  seldom  happy,  for  they  too  often  strive 
after  the  impossible. 

The  hall  of  his  home  looked  bare,  the  maid  was 
capless  and  apronless,  according  to  Norwegian 
fashion,  while  rows  of  goloshes  stood  upon  the  floor. 
The  girl  ushered  me  along  a  passage,  at  the  end 
of  which  was  the  great  man's  study.  He  rose, 
warmly  shook  me  by  the  hand,  and  finding  I  spoke 
German,  at  once  became  affable  and  communicative. 
He  is  of  Teutonic  descent,  and  in  many  ways  has 
inherited  German  characteristics.  When  he  left  Nor- 
way in  1864 — when,  in  fact,  Norway  ceased  to  be  a 
happy  home  for  him — he  wandered  to  Berlin,  Dresden, 
Paris,  and  Rome,  remaining  many  years  in  the  Father- 
land. 

"  The  happiest  summer  I  ever  spent  in  my  life 
was  at  Berchtesgaden  in  1880,"  he  exclaimed.  *' But 
to  me  Norway  is  the  most  lovely  country  in  the 
world." 

Ibsen's  writing-table,  which  is  placed  in  the  window 
so  that  the  dramatist  may  look  out  upon  the  street, 
was  strewn  with  letters,   all   the  envelopes  of  which 


DR.    IIENRIK    IBSEN. 


PLAYS   AND   PLAYWRIGHTS  77 

had  been  neatly  cut,  for  he  is  faddy  and  tidy  almost 
to  the  point  of  old-maidism.  He  has  no  secretary, 
it  worries  him  to  dictate,  and  consequently  all  com- 
munications requiring  answers  have  to  be  written  by 
the  Doctor  himself.  His  caligraphy  is  the  neatest, 
smallest,  roundest  imaginable.  It  is  representative 
of  the  man.  The  signature  is  almost  like  a  school- 
boy's— or  rather,  like  what  a  schoolboy's  is  supposed 
to  be — it  is  so  carefully  lettered  ;  the  modern  school- 
boy's writing  is,  alas  !  ruined  by  copying  "  lines  "  for 
punishment,  time  which  could  be  more  profitably 
employed  learning  thought-inspiring  verses. 

On  the  table  beside  the  inkstand  was  a  small  tray. 
Its  contents  were  extraordinary — some  little  wooden 
carved  Swiss  bears,  a  diminutive  black  devil,  small  cats, 
dogs,  and  rabbits  made  of  copper,  one  of  which  was 
playing  a  violin. 

"What  are  those  funny  little  things?"  I  ventured 
to  ask. 

'^  I  never  write  a  single  line  of  any  of  my  dramas 
unless  that  tray  and  its  occupants  are  before  me  on 
the  table.  I  could  not  write  without  them.  It  may 
seem  strange — perhaps  it  is — but  I  cannot  write 
without  them,"  he  repeated.  "  Why  I  use  them  is 
my  own  secret."     And  he  laughed   quietly. 

Are  these  little  toys,  these  fetiches,  and  their 
strange  fascination,  the  origin  of  those  much-dis- 
cussed dolls  in  The  Master  Builder  ?  Who  can  tell  ? 
They  are  Ibsen's  secret. 

In  manner  Henrik  Ibsen  is  quiet  and  reserved  ; 
he    speaks    slowly    and    deliberately,    so    slowly   as   to 


78  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

remind  one  of  the  late  Mr.  Bayard,  the  former 
American  Minister  to  the  Court  of  St.  James,  when 
he  was  making  a  speech.  Mr.  Bayard  appeared  to 
pause  between  each  word,  and  yet  the  report  in  the 
papers  the  following  day  read  admirably.  This  slow- 
ness may  with  Ibsen  be  owing  to  age,  for  he  was 
born  in  1828  (although  in  manner  and  gait  he  appears 
at  least  ten  years  older),  or  it  may  be  from  shyness, 
for  he  is  certainly  shy.  How  men  vary.  Ibsen  at 
seventy  seemed  an  old  man  ;  General  Diaz,  the  famous 
President  of  Mexico,  young  at  the  same  age.  The 
one  drags  his  feet  and  totters  along  ;  the  other  walks 
briskly  with  head  erect.  Ibsen  was  never  a  society 
man  in  any  sense  of  the  word,  a  mug  of  beer  and 
a  paper  at  the  club  being  his  idea  of  amusement. 
Indeed,  in  Christiania,  until  1 902,  he  could  be  seen  any 
afternoon  at  the  chief  hotel  employed  in  this  way, 
for  after  his  dinner  at  two  o'clock  he  strolled  down 
town  past  the  University  to  spend  a  few  hours  in 
the  fashion  which  pleased  him. 

Norwegian  life  is  much  more  simple  than  ours. 
The  inhabitants  dine  early  and  have  supper  about 
eight  o'clock.  Entertainments  are  hospitable  and 
friendly,  but  not  as  a  rule  costly,  and  although 
Ibsen  is  a  rich  man,  the  only  hobby  on  which  he 
appears  to  have  spent  much  money  is  pictures.  He 
loves  them,  and  wherever  he  has  wandered  his  little 
gallery  has  always  gone  with  him. 

Ibsen  began  to  earn  his  own  living  at  the  age  of 
sixteen,  and  for  five  or  six  years  worked  in  an 
apothecary's  shop,  amusing  himself  during  the  time  by 


PLAYS   AND    PLAYWRIGHTS  79 

reading  curious  books  and  writing  weird  verses.  Only 
twenty-three  copies  of  his  first  book  were  sold,  the 
rest  were  disposed  of  as  waste  paper  to  buy  him  food. 
Those  long  years  of  struggle  doubtless  embittered  his 
life,  but  relief  came  when  he  was  made  manager  of  the 
Bergen  Theatre  with  a  salary  of  ^67  a  year.  For 
seven  years  he  kept  the  post,  and  learnt  the  stage  craft 
which  he  later  utilised  in  his  dramas. 

A  strange  comedy  and  tragedy  was  woven  into  the 
lives  of  Ibsen  and  Bjornson.  As  young  men  they 
were  great  friends  ;  then  politics  drove  them  apart  ; 
they  quarrelled,  and  never  met  for  years  and  years. 
Strange  fate  brought  the  children  of  these  two  great 
writers  together,  and  Bjornson's  daughter  married 
Ibsen's  only  child.  The  fathers  met  after  years  of 
separation  at  the  wedding  of  their  children. 

Verily  a  real  comedy  and  tragedy,  woven  into  the 
lives  of  Scandinavia's  two  foremost  writers  of  tragedy 
and  comedy. 

I  spent  part  of  two  winters  in  Norway,  wandering 
about  on  snow-shoes  (ski)  or  in  sledges,  and  during 
various  visits  to  Christiania  tried  hard  to  see  some 
plays  by  Ibsen  or  Bjornson  acted  ;  but,  strange  as  it 
may  seem,  plays  by  a  certain  Mr.  Shakespeare  were 
generally  in  the  bill,  or  else  amusing  doggerel  such  as 
The  Private  Secretary. 

At  last,  however,  there  came  a  day  when  Peer  Gynt 
was  put  on  the  stage.  This  play  has  never  been 
produced  in  England,  and  yet  it  is  one  of  Ibsen's 
best,  at  all  events  one  of  his  most  poetic.  The  hero 
is    supposed     to    represent    the    Norwegian    character, 


8o  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

vacillating,  amusing,  weak,  bound  by  superstition,  and 
lacking  worldly  balance.  The  author  told  me  he  him- 
self thought  it  was  his  best  work,  though  The  Master 
Builder  gave  him  individually  most  satisfaction. 

In  1898  Ibsen  declared,  "My  life  seems  to  me  to 
have  slipped  by  like  one  long,  long,  quiet  week  "  ; 
adding  that  "  all  who  claimed  him  as  a  teacher  had 
been  wrong — all  he  had  done  or  tried  to  do  was 
faithfully,  closely,  objectively  to  paint  human  nature 
as  he  saw  it,  leaving  deductions  and  dogmatism  to 
others."  He  declared  he  had  never  posed  as  a  re- 
former or  as  a  philosopher  ;  all  he  had  attempted  was  to 
try  and  work  out  that  vein  of  poetry  which  had  been 
born  in  him.  "  Poetry  has  served  me  as  a  bath,  from 
which  I  have  emerged  cleaner,  healthier,  freer." 
Thus  spoke  of  himself  the  man  who  practically  revo- 
lutionised modern  drama. 

In  the  early  days  of  the  twentieth  century  Ibsen 
finished  his  life's  work — he  relinquished  penmanship. 
The  celebrity  he  had  attained  failed  to  interest  him, 
just  as  attack  and  criticism  had  failed  to  arouse  him  in 
earlier  years.  His  social  and  symbolical  dramas  done, 
his  work  in  dramatic  reform  ended,  he  folded  his 
hands  to  await  the  epilogue  of  life.  It  is  a  pathetic 
picture.  He  who  had  done  so  much,  aroused  such 
enthusiasm  and  hatred,  himself  played  out — he  whose 
works  had  been  read  in  every  \^uarter  of  the  globe, 
living  in  quiet  obscurity,  waiting  for  that  end  which 
comes  to  all. 

It  is  a  proud  position  to  stand  at  the  head  of  English 
dramatists  ;    a    position    many  critics   allot    to  Arthur 


PLAYS   AND   PLAYWRIGHTS  8i 

Wing  Pinero.  The  Continent  has  also  paid  him  the 
compliment  of  echoing  that  verdict  by  translating 
and  producing  many  of  his  plays  :  and  if  in  spite 
of  translation  they  survive  the  ordeal  of  different 
interpretations  and  strange  surroundings,  may  it  not 
be  taken  as  proof  that  they  soar  above  the  ordinary 
drama  ? 

About  the  year  1882  Mr.  Pinero  relinquished 
acting  as  a  profession — like  Ibsen,  it  was  in  the 
theatre  he  learnt  his  stage  craft — and  devoted  himself 
to  writing  plays  instead.  Since  that  period  he  has 
steadily  and  surely  climbed  the  rungs  of  that  fickle 
ladder  *'  Public  Opinion "  and  planted  his  banner  on 
the  top. 

Look  at  him.  See  the  strength  of  the  man's  mind 
in  his  face.  Those  great  shaggy  eyebrows  and  deep- 
set,  dark,  penetrating  eyes,  that  round  bald  head,  within 
which  the  brain  is  apparently  too  busy  to  allow  anything 
outside  to  grow.  Though  still  young  he  is  bald, 
so  bald  that  his  head  looks  as  if  it  had  been  shaven 
for  the  priesthood.  The  long  thin  Hps  and  firm  mouth 
denote  strength  of  purpose,  which,  coupled  with  genius 
make  the  man.  Under  that  assumed  air  of  self-pos- 
session there  is  a  merry  mind.  His  feelings  are  well 
under  control — part  of  the  actor's  art — but  he  is 
human  to  the  core.  Pinero  is  no  ordinary  person,  his 
face  with  its  somewhat  heavy  jaw  is  full  of  thought 
and  strength.  He  has  a  vast  fund  of  imagination,  is  a 
keen  student  of  human  nature,  and  above  all  possesses 
the  infinite  capacity  for  taking  pains,  no  details  being 
too  small  for  him.     He  and  Mr.  W.  S.  Gilbert  will, 

6 


82  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

at  rehearsals,  go  over  a  scene  again  and  again.  They 
never  get  angry,  even  under  the  most  trying  circum- 
stances ;  but  poHtely  and  quietly  show  every  move- 
ment, every  gesture,  give  every  intonation  of  the 
voice,  and  in  an  amiable  way  suggest : 

"  Don't  you  think  that  so  and  so  might  be  an 
improvement  ?  " 

They  always  get  what  they  want,  and  no  plays  were 
ever  more  successful  or  better  staged. 

Mr.  Pinero  believes  in  one-part  dramas,  and  women 
evidently  fascinate  him.  Think  of  Mrs.  Tanqueray 
and  Mrs.  Ebbsmith,  for  instance,  both  are  women's 
plays  ;  in  both  are  his  best  work.  He  is  always 
individual  ;  individual  in  his  style,  and  individual  in 
the  working  out  of  his  characters.  During  the 
whole  of  one  August  Mr.  Pinero  remained  in  his 
home  near  Hanover  Square  finishing  a  comedy  of 
which  he  superintended  rehearsals  in  the  September 
following.  He  must  be  alone  when  he  works,  and 
apparently  barred  windows  and  doors,  and  a  char- 
woman and  her  cat,  when  all  London  is  out  of  town, 
give  him  inspiration. 

London  is  particularly  proud  of  Arthur  Pinero, 
who  was  born  amid  her  bustle  in  1855.  The  only 
son  of  a  solicitor  in  the  City,  he  was  originally  in- 
tended for  the  law,  but  when  nineteen  he  went  upon 
the  stage,  where  he  remained  for  about  seven  years. 
One  can  only  presume,  however,  that  he  did  not  like 
it,  or  he  would  not  so  quickly  have  turned  his 
attention  to  other  matters.  Those  who  remember 
his   stage  life  declare   he  showed  great    promise   as  a 


PLAYS   AND   PLAYWRIGHTS  83 

young  actor.  But  be  this  as  it  may,  it  is  a  good  thing 
he  turned  his  back  upon  that  branch  of  the  profession 
and  adopted  the  role  of  a  dramatist,  for  therein  he  has 
excelled.  Among  his  successful  plays  are  The  Magis- 
trate, Dandy  Dirk,  Szveet  Lavender,  The  Cabinet 
Minister,  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,  The  Notorious 
Mrs.  Ebbsmith,  Trelawny  of  the  Wells,  The  Gay  Lord 
Quex,  and  Iris. 

Among  other  attributes  not  usually  known,  Mr. 
Pinero  is  an  excellent  draughtsman,  and  can  make 
a  remarkable  caricature  of  himself  in  a  few  moments. 
His  is  a  strong  and  striking  head  which  lends  itself 
to  caricature,  and  he  is  one  of  those  people  who, 
while  poking  fun  at  others,  does  not  mind  poking 
fun  at  himself. 

When  asked  to  what  he  attributed  his  success, 
Mr.   Pinero  replied  : 

"  Such  success  as  I  have  obtained  I  attribute  to 
small  powers  of  observation  and  great  patience  and 
perseverance." 

His  work  is  always  up-to-date,  for  Mr.  Pinero  is 
modern  to  his  finger-tips. 

How  delightful  it  is  to  see  people  who  have 
worked  together  for  years  remaining  staunch  friends. 
One  Sunday  I  was  invited  to  a  luncheon  the  Pineros 
gave  at  Claridge's.  The  room  was  marked  "  Private  " 
for  the  occasion,  and  there  the  hospitable  couple 
received  twenty  guests,  while  beyond  was  a  large 
dining-room,  to  which  we  afterwards  adjourned. 
That  amusing  actor  and  charming  man,  John  Hare, 
with  whom  Pinero  has  been  associated  for  many  years. 


84  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

was  present  ;  Miss  Irene  Vanbrugh,  his  Sophy 
Fullgarney  in  the  Gay  Lord  Quex,  and  Letty,  in 
the  play  of  that  name^  that  dainty  and  fascinating 
American  actress,  Miss  Fay  Davis,  and  Mr.  Dion 
Boucicault.  There  they  were,  all  these  people  who 
had  worked  so  long  together,  and  were  still  such  good 
friends  as  to  form  a  merry,  happy  little  family 
party. 

Gillette,  the  American  hero  of  the  hour,  was  also 
present,  and  charming  indeed  he  proved  to  be  ;  but 
he  was  an  outsider,  so  to  speak,  for  most  of  the 
party  had  acted  in  Pinero's  plays,  and  that  was  what 
seemed  so  wonderful  ;  because  just  as  a  secretary 
sees  the  worst  side  of  his  employer's  character,  the 
irritability,  the  moments  of  anxious  thought  and 
worry,  so  the  actor  generally  finds  out  the  angles 
and  corners  of  a  dramatist.  Only  those  who  live 
in  the  profession  can  realise  what  such  a  meeting 
as  that  party  at  Claridge's  really  meant,  what  a  fund 
of  good  temper  it  proclaimed,  what  strength  of 
character  it  represented,  what  forbearance  on  all  sides 
it  proved. 

That  party  was  representative  of  friendship,  which, 
like  health,  is  seldom  valued  until  lost. 

There  are  as  many  ways  of  writing  a  play  as  there 
are  of  trimming  a  hat.  Some  people,  probably  most 
people,  begin  at  the  end,  that  is  to  say,  they  evolve 
some  grand  climax  in  their  minds  and  work  back- 
wards, or  they  get  hold  of  the  chief  situations  as  a 
nucleus,  from  which  they  work  out  the  whole.  Some 
writers  let  the  play  write  itself,   that  is  to   say,  they 


Pliolo  by  Langfter,  23c!,  Old  Btnui  Strict,  London,  IF. 


X 


,^:^  y:^^  ^si-^^-T^^*-*  i'^t^ry 


/;?^<^^^ 


■^^^  y^^y^y^s. 


MR.    ARTHUR    \V.    PINERO. 


PLAYS   AND   PLAYWRIGHTS  85 

start  with  some  sort  of  idea  which  develops  as  they 
go  on,  but  the  most  satisfactory  mode  appears  to  be 
for  the  writer  to  decide  everything  even  to  the 
minutest  detail,  and  then  sketch  out  each  situation. 
In  a  word,  he  ought  to  know  exactly  what  he  means 
to  do  before  putting  pen  to  paper. 

The  plots  of  Mr.  Pinero's  plays  are  all  conceived 
and  born  in  movement.  He  walks  up  and  down  the 
room.  He  strolls  round  Regent's  Park,  or  bicycles 
further  afield,  but  the  dramas  are  always  evolved  while 
his  limbs  are  in  action,  mere  exercise  seeming  to  inspire 
him  with  ideas. 

It  is  long  before  he  actually  settles  down  to  write 
his  play.  He  thinks  and  ponders,  plans  and  arranges, 
makes  and  remakes  his  plots,  and  never  puts  pen  to 
paper  until  he  has  thoroughly  realised,  not  only  his 
characters,  but  the  very  scenes  amid  which  these 
characters  are  to  move  and  have  their  being. 

He  knows  every  room  in  which  they  are  to  enact 
their  parts,  he  sees  in  his  mind's  eye  every  one  of 
his  personalities,  he  dresses  them  according  to  his 
own  individual  taste,  and  so  careful  is  he  of  the 
minutest  details  that  he  draws  a  little  plan  of  the 
stage  for  each  act,  on  which  he  notifies  the  position 
of  every  chair,  and  with  this  before  him  he  moves 
his  characters  in  his  mind's  eye  as  the  scene  progresses. 
His  play  is  finished  before  it  is  begun,  that  is  to 
say,  before  a  line  of  it  is  really  written. 

His  mastery  of  stage  craft  is  so  great  that  he  can 
definitely  arrange  every  position  for  the  actor,  every 
gesture,   every   movement,   and    thus    is    able    to  give 


86  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

those  minute  details  of  stage  direction  which  are  so 
well  known  in  his  printed  plays. 

In  his  early  days  he  wrote  Two  Hundred  a  Tear 
in  an  afternoon  ;  Dandy  Dick  occupied  him  three 
weeks  ;  but  as  time  went  on  and  he  became  more 
critical  of  his  own  work,  he  spent  fifteen  months  in 
completing  The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith,  nine  months 
over  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray^  and  six  months  over 
The  Gay  Lord  Quex,  helped  in  the  latter  drama,  as 
he  said,  "  by  the  invigorating  influence  of  his  bicycle." 

He  is  one  of  the  most  painstaking  men  alive,  and 
over  Letty  he  spent  two  years. 

"  I  think  I  have  done  a  good  day's  work  if  I  can 
finish  a  single  speech  right,"  he  remarked,  and  that 
sums  up  the  whole  situation. 

Each  morning  he  sees  his  secretary  from  eleven  to 
twelve,  dictates  his  letters,  and  arranges  his  business; 
takes  a  walk  or  a  ride  till  luncheon,  after  which  he 
enjoys  a  pipe  and  a  book,  and  in  the  afternoon  lies 
down  for  a  couple  of  hours'  quiet. 

When  he  is  writing  a  play  he  never  dines  out,  but 
after  his  afternoon  rest  enjoys  a  good  tea  (is  it  a 
high  tea  .^),  shuts  the  baize  doors  of  that  dehghtful 
study  overlooking  Hanover  Square,  and  works  until 
quite  late,  when  he  partakes  of  a  light  supper. 

No  one  dare  disturb  him  during  those  precious 
hours,  when  he  smokes  incessantly,  walks  about  con- 
tinually, and  rarely  puts  a  line  on  paper  until  he 
feels  absolutely  certain  he  has  phrased  that  line  as 
he  wishes  it  to  remain. 

Pinero's    writing-table    is    as    tidy    as   Ibsen's  ;    but 


PLAYS   AND    PLAYWRIGHTS  87 

while  Ibsen's  study  is  small  and  simply  furnished, 
Pinero's  is  large,  contains  handsome  furniture,  in- 
teresting books,  sumptuous  Editions  de  luxe,  charming 
sketches,  portraits,  caricatures,  handsome  carpets,  and 
breathes  an  air  of  the  owner's  luxurious  taste. 

Like  his  writing-table,  his  orthography  is  a  model 
of  neatness.  When  he  has  completed  an  act  he 
carefully  copies  it  himself  in  a  handwriting  worthy 
of  any  clerk,  and  sends  it  off  at  once  to  the  printers. 
But  few  revisions  are  made  in  the  proof,  so  sure 
is  the  dramatist  when  he  has  perfected  his  scheme. 

Mr.  Pinero  keeps  a  sort  of  "  day-book,"  in  which 
he  jots  down  characters,  speeches,  and  plots  likely 
to  prove  of  use  in  his  work.  It  is  much  the  same 
sort  of  day-book  as  that  kept  by  Mr,  Frankfort 
Moore,  the  novelist,  who  has  the  nucleus  of  a 
hundred  novels  ever  in  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

Formerly  men  jotted  down  notes  on  their  shirt- 
cuffs,  from  which  the  laundress  learned  the  wicked 
ways  of  society.  The  figures  now  covering  wristbands 
are  merely  the  winnings  or  losings  at  Bridge. 

The  dramatist  loves  ease  and  luxury,  and  his 
plays  represent  such  surroundings. 

"  Wealth  and  leisure,"  he  remarked,  "  are  more 
productive  of  dramatic  complications  than  poverty 
and  hard  work.  My  characters  force  me  in  spite 
of  myself  to  lift  them  up  in  the  world.  The  lower 
classes  do  not  analyse  or  meditate,  do  not  give 
utterance  either  to  their  thoughts  or  their  emotions, 
and  yet  it  is  easier  to  get  a  low  life  part  well  played 
than  one  of  high  society." 


88  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Mr.  Pinero  is  a  delightful  companion  and  he  has 
the  keenest  sense  of  humour.  He  tells  a  good  story 
in  a  truly  dramatic  way,  and  his  greatest  characteristic 
is  his  simple  modesty.  He  never  boasts,  never  talks 
big  ;  but  is  always  a  genial,  kindly,  English  gentle- 
man. He  rarely  enters  a  theatre  ;  in  fact,  he  could 
count  on  his  fingers  the  times  he  has  done  so 
during  the  last  twenty  years.  Life  is  his  stage,  men 
and  women  its  characters,  his  surroundings  the 
scenes.  He  does  not  wish  a  State  theatre,  and 
thinks  Irving  has  done  more  for  the  stage  than  any 
man  in  any  time.  He  has  the  greatest  love  for  his 
old  master,  and  considers  Irving's  Hamlet  the  "  most 
intelligent  performance  of  the  age,"  He  waxes  warm 
on  the  subject  of  Irving's  "  magnetic  touch,"  which 
influences  all  that  great  actor's  work.  Pinero's  love 
for,  and  belief  in,  the  powers  of  the  stage  for  good 
or  ill  are  deep-seated,  and  each  year  finds  him  more 
given  to  careful  psychological  study,  the  only  draw- 
back to  which  is  the  fear  that  in  over-elaboration 
freshness  somewhat  vanishes.  Ibsen  always  took  two 
years  over  a  play,  and  Pinero  seems  to  be  acquiring 
the  same  habit. 

A  Pinero  first  night  is  looked  upon  as  a  great 
theatrical  event,  and  rightly  so.  It  was  on  a  wet 
October  evening  (1903)  that  the  long-anticipated 
hetty  saw  the  light. 

Opposite  is  the  programme. 


PLAYS  AND   PLAYWRIGHTS  89 

Duke  of  York's  Theatre, 

ST.     MARTIN'S     LANE,    W.C. 

Proprietors     Mr.  &  Mrs.  Frank  Wyatt. 

Sole  Lessee  and  Manager  CHARLES  FROHMAN. 

EVERY  EVENING  at  a  Quarter  to  Eight 
CHARLES    FROHIVIAN 

Presents 
A  Drama,  in  Four  Acts  and  an  Epilogue,  entitled 


t 


* 

* 


By    ARTHUR    W.    PINERO. 


Ncvill  Letchmere...  Mr.  H.  B.   Irving 

Ivor  Crosbie    ...  Mr.   Ivo  Dawson 

Coppinger  Drake Mr.   Dorrington  Grimston 

Bernard  Mandeville      ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  Mr.  Fred  Kerr 

Richard  Perry         Mr.   Dion  Boucicault 

Neale      {A  Commercial  Traveller)    Mr.  Charles  Troode 

Ordish  {Agent  for  an  Insurance  Company)  Mr.  Jerrold  Robertshaw 

Rugg  ...         {Mr.  Letchmere s  Servant)     Mr.  Clayton  Greene 

Frederic (A  Maitre  d'BStel)     M.  Edouard  Garceau 

Waiters        Mr.  W.  H.  Haigh  &  Mr.  Walter  Hack 

Mrs.  Ivor  Crosbie         Miss  S.ARAH  Brooke 

Letty  Shell  \   Clerks  at  J  Miss  Irene  Vanbrugh 

Marion  Allardyce    J  Dugdale's  I  Miss  Beatrice  Forbes  Robertson 

,T., ,     ,,        .  ( An  Assistant  at  Madame^     ,,.     ^,  „ 

Hilda  Gunning  \  r,r  .,  •    >  (    Miss  Nancy  Price 

l  Watkms  s  J 

A  Lady's-maid Miss  May  Onslow 


The  Scene  is  laid  in  London  :— the  First  and  Fourth  Acts  at  Mr.  Letchtnere's  FLit  in 
Grafton  Street,  New  Bond  Street ;  the  Second  at  a  house  in  Langham  Street  ;  the 
Third  in  a  private  room  at  the  Cafe  Regence  ;  and  the  Epilogue  at  a  photographer's 
in  Baker  Street.  The  events  of  the  four  acts  of  the  drama,  commencing  on  a  Saturday 
in  June,  take  place  within  the  space  of  a  few  hours.  Between  the  Fourth  Act  and  the 
Epilogue  two  years  and  six  months  are  supposed  to  elapse. 

THE  PLAY  PRODUCED  UNDER  THE  PERSONAL  DIRECTION 
OF   THE    AUTHOR. 

The  Scenery  Painted  by  Mr.  W.   Hann. 

FIRST    MATINEE   SATURDAY,   OCTOBER   17th,   at   2. 

General  M.inager      ...      (for  Charles  Frohman)      ...      W.   LESTOCQ. 


90  BEHIND  THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

For  once  the  famous  dramatist  descended  from 
dukes  and  duchesses  to  a  typewriter  girl  and  a 
Bond  Street  swell.  For  once  he  left  those  high- 
class  folk  he  finds  so  full  of  interest,  moods,  whims, 
ideas,  self-analysis,  and  the  rest  of  it,  and  cajoled 
a  lower  stratum  of  life  to  his  pen. 

Almost  the  first  actor  to  appear  was  H.  B.  Irving 
— what  a  reception  he  received,  and,  brilliant  cynic- 
actor  though  he  be,  his  nervousness  overpowered  him 
to  the  point  of  ashen  paleness  and  unrestrained  twitch- 
ing of  the  fingers.  His  methods,  his  tact,  his 
cynicism  were  wonderful,  and  as  Nevill  Letchmere 
his  resemiblance  to  his  father  was  remarkable. 

What  strikes  one  most  in  a  Pinero  play  is  the 
harmony  of  the  whole.  Every  character  is  a  living 
being.  One  remembers  them  all.  The  limelight 
is  turned  on  each  in  turn,  and  not  as  at  so  many 
theatres  on  the  actor-manager  only.  The  play 
is  a  complete  picture — not  a  frame  with  the  actor- 
manager  as  the  dominant  person.  He  is  so  often 
the  only  figure  on  the  canvas,  his  colleagues  mere 
side-show  puppets,  that  it  is  a  real  joy  to  see 
a  play  in  England  where  every  one  is  given  a 
chance.  Mr.  Pinero  does  that.  He  not  only  creates 
living  breathing  studies  of  humanity,  but  he  sees 
that  they  are  played  in  a  lifelike  way.  What  is  the 
result  ?  A  perfect  whole.  A  fine  piece  of  mosaic 
work  well  fitted  together.  We  may  not  altogether 
care  for  the  design  or  the  colour,  but  we  all  admire 
its  aims,  its  completeness,  and  feel  the  touch  of 
genius  that  permeates  the  whole. 


PLAYS   AND   PLAYWRIGHTS  91 

No  more  discriminating  audience  than  that  at  the 
first  night  of  Letly  could  possibly  have  been  brought 
together.  Every  critic  of  worth  was  there.  William 
Archer  sat  in  the  stalls  immediately  behind  me,  W.  L. 
Courtney  and  Malcolm  Watson  beyond,  J.  Knight, 
A.  B.  Walkley,  and  A.  E.  T.  Watson  near  by.  Actors 
and  actresses,  artists,  writers,  men  and  women  of 
note  in  every  walk  of  life  were  there,  and  the 
enthusiasm  was  intense.  Mr.  Pinero  was  not  in  the 
house,  no  call  of  "  author "  brought  him  before  the 
footlights,  but  his  handsome  wife — a  prey  to  nervous- 
ness— was  hidden  behind  the  curtains  in  the  stage  box. 


CHAPTER    V 

THE  ARMY  AND   THE  STAGE 

Captain  Robert  Marshall— From  the  Ranks  to  the  Stage— ;^io  for  a 
Play — How  Copyright  is  Retained — I.  Zangwill  as  Actor — Copy- 
right Performance — Three  First  Plays  (Pinero,  Grundy,  Sims) — 
Cyril  Maude  at  the  Opera — Mice  and  Men — Sir  Francis  Burnand, 
Ptmch,  Sir  John  Tenniel,  and  a  Cartoon — Brandon  Thomas  and 
Charley  s  Aunt — How  that  Play  was  Written — The  Gaekvvar  of 
Baroda — Changes  in  London — Frederick  Fenn  at  Clement's  Inn — 
James  Welch  on  Audiences. 

ONE  of  our  youngest  dramatists,  for  it  was  only 
in  1897  that  Captain  Robert  Marshall's  first 
important  play  appeared,  has  suddenly  leapt  into  the 
front  rank.  His  earlier  days  were  in  no  way 
connected  with  the  stage. 

It  is  not  often  a  man  can  earn  an  income  in  two 
different  professions  ;  such  success  is  unusual.  True, 
Earl  Roberts  is  a  soldier  and  a  writer  ;  Forbes 
Robertson,  Weedon  Grossmith,  and  Bernard  Part- 
ridge are  actors  as  well  as  artists  ;  Lumsden 
Propert,  the  author  of  the  best  book  on  miniatures, 
was  a  doctor  by  profession  ;  Edmund  Gosse  and 
Edward  Clodd  have  other  occupations  besides  litera- 
ture. Although  known  as  a  writer,  W.  S.  Gilbert 
could     earn     an     income     at    the     Bar    or     in     Art  ; 

92 


THE   ARMY   AND   THE   STAGE         93 

A.  W.  Pinero  is  no  mean  draughtsman  ;  Miss 
Gertrude  Kingston  writes  and  illustrates  as  well 
as  acts  ;  and  Harry  Furniss  has  shown  us  he  is 
as  clever  with  his  pen  as  with  his  brush  in  his  Con- 
fessions of  a  Caricaturist.  Still,  it  is  unusual  for 
any  one  to  succeed  in  two  ways. 

Nevertheless  Captain  Robert  Marshall,  once  in  the 
army,  is  now  a  successful  dramatist.  He  was  born  in 
Edinburgh  in  1863,  his  father  being  a  J. P.  of  that  city. 
Educated  at  St.  Andrews,  the  ancient  town  famous  for 
learning  and  golf,  he  later  migrated  to  Edinburgh 
University.  While  studying  there  his  brother  entered 
Sandhurst  at  the  top  of  the  list,  and  left  in  an  equally 
exalted  position.  This  inspired  the  younger  brother 
with  a  desire  for  the  army,  and  he  enlisted  in  the 
Highland  Light  Infantry,  then  stationed  in  Ireland. 
The  ranks  gave  him  an  excellent  training,  besides 
affording  opportunities  for  studying  various  sides  of 
life.  Three  years  later  he  entered  the  Duke  of 
Wellington's  West  Riding  Regiment  as  an  officer, 
receiving  his  Captaincy  in  1895,  after  having  filled 
the  post  of  District  Adjutant  at  Cape  Town  and 
A.D.C.  to  the  Governor  of  Natal,  Sir  W.  Hely- 
Hutchinson. 

No  one  looking  at  Captain  Marshall  now  would 
imagine  that  ill-health  had  ever  afflicted  him  ;  such, 
however,  was  the  case,  and  but  for  the  fact  that  a 
delicate  chest  necessitated  retiring  from  the  army,  he 
would  probably  never  have  become  a  dramatist  by 
profession.  It  was  about  1898  that  he  left  the 
Service  ;  but  he  has  made  good  use  of  the  time  since 


94  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

then,  for  such  plays  as  His  Excellency  the  Governor^ 
A  Royal  Family^  'The  Noble  Lord^  and  The  Second  in 
Command  have  followed  in  quick  succession.  Then 
came  an  adaptation  of  M.M.  Scribe  and  Legouve's 
Bataille  de  Dames,  which  he  called  There's  Many  a 
Slip,  but  which  T.  Robertson  translated  with  immense 
success  as  The  Ladies'   Battle  some  years  before. 

Mrs.  Kendal,  apropos  of  this,  writes  me  the 
following  : 

"  My  dear  brother  Tom  had  been  dead  for  years 
before  I  ever  played  in  The  Ladies'  Battle.  He  trans- 
lated and  sold  it  to  Lacy,  an  old  theatrical  manager 
and  agent,  for  about  _;^io.  Mr,  Kendal  and  Mr. 
Hare  revived  it  at  the  Court  Theatre  when  I  was 
under  their  management." 

What  would  a  modern  dramatist  say  to  a  _^io 
note  }  What,  indeed,  would  Captain  Marshall  say  for 
such  a  small  reward,  instead  of  reaping  a  golden 
harvest  as  he  did  with  his  translation  of  the  very 
same  piece.  Times  have  changed  indeed  during 
the  last  few  years,  for  play-writing  is  now  a  most 
remunerative  profession  when  it  proves  successful. 

I  remember  once  at  a  charming  luncheon  given  by 
the  George  Alexanders  at  their  house  in  Pont  Street, 
hearing  Mr.  Lionel  Monckton  bitterly  complaining 
of  the  difficulty  of  getting  royalties  for  musical 
plays  from  abroad.  Since  then  worse  things  have 
happened,  and  pirated  copies  of  favourite  songs  have 
been  sold  by  hundreds  of  thousands  in  the  streets  of 
London  for  which  the  authors,  composers,  and  publishers 
have  never  received  a  cent.     Mr.  J.  M.  Barrie,  who  was 


THE  ARMY   AND   THE    STAGE         95 

sitting  beside  me,  joined  in,  and  declared,  if  I  am 
not  mistaken,  that  he  had  never  got  a  penny  from 
The  Little  Minister  in  America,  or  The  Window  in 
Thrums  ;  indeed,  it  was  not  till  Sentimental  Tommy 
appeared  in  1894  that  he  ever  received  anything  at 
all  from  America,  so  The  Little  Minister,  like  Pinafore, 
was  acted  thousands  of  times  without  any  royalties 
being  paid  to  the  respective  authors  by  the  United 
States. 

Of  course  there  was  no  copyright  at  all  in  England 
till  1833,  and  until  that  date  a  play  could  be  pro- 
duced by  any  one  at  any  time  without  payment.  The 
idea  was  preposterous,  and  so  much  abused  that  the 
Royal  Assent  was  given  in  Parliament  to  a  copyright 
bill  proposed  by  the  Hon.  George  Lamb,  and  carried 
through  by  Mr.  Lytton  Bulwer,  who  afterwards 
became  famous  as  Lord  Lytton.  Still,  even  this,  un- 
fortunately, does  not  prevent  piracy.  Pirate  thieves 
of  other  people's  brains  have  had  a  good  innings 
lately. 

The  only  way  to  safeguard  against  the  confiscation 
of  a  play  without  the  author  receiving  any  dues  is 
to  give  a  '*  copyright  performance."  With  this  end  in 
view  the  well-known  writer,  Mr.  L  Zangwill,  gave 
an  amusing  representation  of  his  play  called  Merry 
Mary  Ann,  founded  on  his  novel  of  the  same  name. 
The  performance  took  place  at  the  Corn  Exchange, 
Wallingford,  and  Mr.  Zangwill  was  himself  stage 
manager.  This  took  place  a  week  before  it  was  given 
with  such  success  in  Chicago,  and  secured  the  English 
copyright  to  its  author  as  well  as  the  American. 


96  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

The  modus  operandi  under  these  circumstances  is  : 
(i)  To  pay  a  two-guinea  fee  for  a  licence. 

(2)  To  hire  a  hall  which  is  licensed  for  stage  per- 
formances. 

(3)  To  notify  the  public  by  means  of  posters  that 
the  play  will   take  place. 

To  make  some  one  pay  for  admission.  If  only 
one  person  pay  one  guinea,  that  person  constitutes  an 
audience,   which,  if  small,  is  at  least  unanimous. 

Having  arranged  all  these  preliminaries  the  author 
.  and  his   friends  proceed  to  read,  or  whenever  possible 
act,   the   parts   of  the  drama,   and  a   very  funny   per- 
formance it  sometimes  is. 

Mr.  Zangwill's  caste  was  certainly  amusing.  Mr. 
Jerome  K.  Jerome,  author  of  I'hree  Men  in  a  Boat^ 
was  particularly  good  ;  but  then  he  is  an  old  actor. 
He  lives  at  Wallingford-on-Thames,  where  he  repre- 
sents literature  and  journalism,  G.  F.  Leslie,  R.A., 
representing  art  ;  both  joined  forces  for  one  after- 
noon at  that  strange  performance  which  was  in 
many  ways  a  record.  Sir  Conan  Doyle,  of  Sherlock 
Holmes  fame,  was  to  have  played  ;  but  was  called 
away  at  the  last  moment. 

Mr.  Zangwill  is  an  old  hand  at  this  sort  of  thing  ; 
when  a  copyright  performance  of  Hall  Caine's  Mahdi 
was  given  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre  he  began  at 
first  by  playing  his  allotted  part;  but  as  one  per- 
former after  another  threw  up  their  roles  he  was 
finally  left  to  act  them  all.  The  female  parts  he  played 
in  his  shirt-sleeves,  with  a  high  pitched  voice.  Mr. 
Clement  Scott  gave  a  long  and  favourable  notice  in  the 


THE   ARMY   AND   THE   STAGE         97 

Daily  Telegraph  next  day.  Mr.  Zaiigwill  has  lately 
taken  unto  himself  a  wife,  none  too  soon,  as  he  was 
the  only  member  left  in  his  Bachelor  Club  ! 

It  is  rather  amusing  to  contrast  the  first  plays  of 
various  men  ;  for  instance,  Mr.  Pinero,  writing  in  the 
Era  Annual,  graphically  described  his  beginning  thus  : 

"  First  play  of  all  :  Two  Hundred  a  Tear.  This 
was  written  for  my  old  friends  Mr.  R.  C.  Carton  and 
Miss  Compton  (Mrs.  Carton)  as  a  labour  of  love  when 
I  was  an  actor,  and  was  produced  at  the  Globe  in  1877. 
The  love,  however,  was  and  is  more  considerable  than 
the  composition,  which  did  not  employ  me  more  than 
a  single  afternoon.  My  next  venture  was  in  the  same 
year,  and  entitled  'Two  Can  Flay  at  the  Game^  a  farce 
produced  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre  by  Mrs.  Bateman 
in  order  really  to  provide  myself  with  a  part.  I  acted 
in  this  many  times  in  London,  and  afterwards  under 
Mr.  Irving,  as  he  then  was,  throughout  the  provinces. 
By  the  way,  Mrs.  Bateman  paid  me  five  pounds  for 
this  piece." 

Mr.  Sydney  Grundy  tells  the  following  story  : 

"In  1872  I  amused  myself  by  writing  a  comedietta. 
I  had  it  printed,  and  across  the  cover  of  one  copy  I 
scrawled  in  a  large  bold  hand,  "  You  may  play  this 
for  nothing,"  addressed  it  to  J.  B.  Buckstone,  Esq., 
Haymarket  Theatre,  London,  posted  it,  and  forgot 
all  about  it.  A  week  afterwards  I  received  a  letter 
in  these  terms  :  *Dear  Sir, — Mr.  Buckstone  desires 
me  to  inform  you  that  your  comedietta  is  in  rehearsal, 
and  will  be  produced  at  his  forthcoming  Benefit. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.   Kendal  will  play  the  principal  parts. — 

7 


98  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Yours  faithfully,  F.  Weathersby.'  New  authors  were 
such  rare  phenomena  in  those  days,  that  Mr.  Buckstone 
did  not  know  how  to  announce  me,  so  adopted  the  weird 
expedient  of  describing  me  as  '  Mr.  Sydney  Grundy,  of 
Manchester.'  The  comedietta  was  a  great  success  and 
received  only  one  bad  review.  One  critic  was  so 
tickled  by  the  circumstance  that  the  author  hved  in 
Manchester  that  he  mentioned  it  no  fewer  than  three 
times  in  his  '  notice.'  " 

G.  R.  Sims  describes  his  initial  attempt  thus  : 

"  My  first  play  was  produced  at  the  Theatre  Royal, 
113,  Adelaide  Road,  and  was  a  burlesque  of  Leah  \ 
the  parts  were  played  by  my  brothers  and  sisters  and 
some  young  friends.  The  price  of  admission  to  the 
day  nursery,  in  which  the  stage  was  erected,  was  one 
shilling,  which  included  tea,  but  visitors  were  requested 
to  bring  their  own  cake  and  jam.  The  burlesque  was 
in  four  scenes.  Many  of  the  speeches  were  lifted 
bodily  from  the  pubHshed  burlesque  of  Henry  J. 
Byron. 

"That  was  my  first  play  as  an  amateur.  My  first 
professional  play  was.  One  Hundred  Tears  Old,  and 
is  now  twenty-seven  years  old.  It  was  produced 
July  loth,  1875,  ^t  ^  matinee  at  the  Olympic  Theatre, 
by  Mr.  E.  J.  Odell,  and  was  a  translation  or  adaptation 
of  Le  Centenaire,  by  D'Ennery  and  another.  It  was 
less  succesful  than  my  amateur  play.  It  did  not  bring 
me  a  shilling.  The  burlesque  brought  me  two — one 
paid  by  my  father  and  one  by  my  mother." 

Such  were  the  first  experiences  of  three  eminent 
dramatic  authors. 


THE   ARMY   AND   THE   STAGE         99 

It  must  be  delightful  when  author  and  actor  are 
in  unison.  Such  a  thing  as  a  difference  of  opinion 
cannot  be  altogether  unknown  between  them  ;  but 
no  more  united  little  band  could  possibly  be  found 
than  that  behind  the  scenes  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre, 
where  the  rehearsals  are  conducted  in  the  spirit  of 
a  family  party.  The  tyrannical  author  and  the  self- 
assertive  representatives  of  his  creations  all  work  in 
harmony. 

"  As  one  gets  up  in  the  Service,"  amusingly  said 
Captain  Marshall,  "  one  receives  a  higher  rate  of  pay, 
and  has  proportionately  less  to  do.  Thus  it  was  I 
found  time  for  scribbling  ;  it  was  actually  while  A.D.C. 
and  living  in  a  Government  House  that  I  wrote  His 
Excellency  the  Governor.  Three  days  after  it  came  out 
I  left  the  army." 

*'  Was  that  your  first  play  .^  "  I  inquired. 

"  No.  My  first  was  a  little  one-act  piece  which 
Mr.  Kendal  accepted.  It  dealt  with  the  flight  of 
Bonnie  Prince  Charlie  from  Scotland  in  1746.  My 
first  acted  play  appeared  at  the  Lyceum,  and  was 
another  piece  in  one  act,  called  Shades  of  Nighty  which 
finally  migrated  to  the  Haymarket." 

It  is  curious  how  success  and  failure  follow  one  on 
the  other.  No  play  of  Captain  Marshall's  excited  more 
criticism  than  The  'Broad  Road  at  Terry's  ;  but  never- 
theless it  was  a  failure.  It  was  succeeded  immediately 
by  A  Royal  Family  at  the  Court,  which  proved  popular. 
He  has  worked  hard  during  the  last  few  years,  and 
deserves  any  meed  of  praise  that  may  be  given  him 
by  the  public.      Many  men  on  being  told  to  relinquish 


loo  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

the  profession  they  loved  because  of  ill-health  would 
calmly  sit  down  and  court  death.  Not  so  Robert 
Marshall.  He  at  once  turned  his  attention  elsewhere, 
chose  an  occupation  he  could  take  about  with  him 
when  driven  by  necessity  to  warmer  climes,  lived  in 
the  fresh  air,  did  as  he  was  medically  advised,  with 
the  result  that  to-day  he  is  a  comparatively  strong 
man,  busy  in  a  life  that  is  full  of  interest. 

As  a  subaltern  in  the  army  the  embryo  dramatist 
once  painted  the  scenery  for  a  performance  of  The 
Mikado  in  Bermuda,  and  was  known  to  write,  act, 
stage-manage,  and  paint  the  scenes  of  another  play 
himself  Enthusiasm  truly  ;  but  it  was  all  experience, 
and  the  intimate  knowledge  then  gained  of  the 
difficulties  of  stage  craft  have  since  stood  him  in  good 
stead. 

Captain  Marshall  is  a  broad,  good-looking  man, 
retiring  by  disposition,  one  might  almost  say  shy — 
for  that  term  applies,  although  he  emphatically  denies 
the  charge — and  certainly  humble  and  modest  as 
regards  his  own  work.  The  author  of  The  Second 
in  Command  is  athletically  inclined  ;  he  is  fond  of 
golf,  fencing,  and  tennis — the  love  of  the  first  he 
doubtless  acquired  in  his  childhood's  days,  when  old 
Tom  Morris  was  so  well  known  on  the  St.  Andrews 
links. 

The  playwright  is  also  devoted  to  music,  and 
nothing  gives  him  greater  pleasure  than  to  spend  an 
evening  at  the  Opera.  One  night  I  happened  to 
sit  in  a  box  between  him  and  Mr.  Cryil  Maude,  and 
probably  there  were  no  more  appreciative  listeners  in 


THE   ARMY   AND   THE    STAGE       loi 

the  house  than  these  two  men,  both  intensely  interested 
in  the  representation  of  Tannhduser.  Poor  Mr. 
Maude  having  a  sore  throat,  had  been  forbidden  to 
act  that  evening  for  fear  of  losing  the  little  voice 
which  remained  to  him.  As  music  is  his  delight, 
and  an  evening  at  the  Opera  an  almost  unknown 
pleasure,  he  enjoyed  himself  with  the  enthusiasm  of 
a  child,  feeling  he  was  havinor  a  "  real  holidav." 

Captain  Marshall  is  so  fond  of  music  that  he  amuses 
himself  constantly  at  his  piano  or  pianola  in  his 
charming  flat  in  town. 

"  1  like  the  machine  best,"  he  remarked  laughingly, 
"  because  it  makes  no  mistakes,  and  with  a  little 
practice  can  be  played  with  almost  as  much  feeling 
as  a  pianoforte." 

When  in  London  Captain  Marshall  lives  in  a 
flat  at  the  corner  of  Berkeley  Square  ;  but  during  the 
winter  he  migrates  to  the  Riviera  or  some  other 
sunny  land.  The  home  reflects  the  taste  of  its 
owner  ;  and  the  dainty  colouring,  charming  pictures, 
and  solid  furniture  of  the  flat  denote  the  man  of 
artistic  taste  who  dislikes  show  without  substance  even 
in  furniture. 

The  first  time  I  met  Robert  Marshall  was  at 
W.  S.  Gilbert's  delightful  country  home  at  Harrow 
Weald.  The  Captain  has  a  most  exalted  opinion  of 
Mr.  Gilbert's  writings  and  witticisms.  He  considers 
him  a  model  playwright,  and  certainly  worships — as 
much  as  one  man  can  worship  at  the  shrine  of  another 
— this  originator  of  modern  comedy. 

One    summer,    when    Captain    Marshall    found    the 


I02  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

alluring  hospitality  of  London  incompatible  with  work, 
he  took  a  charming  house  at  Harrow  Weald,  and 
settled  himself  down  to  finish  a  play.  He  could  not, 
however,  stand  the  loneliness  of  a  big  establishment  by 
himself — a  loneliness  which  he  does  not  feel  in  his 
flat.  Consequently  that  peace  and  quiet  which  he 
went  to  the  country  to  find,  he  himself  disturbed 
by  inviting  friends  down  on  all  possible  occasions, 
and  being  just  as  gay  as  if  he  had  remained  in  town. 
He  finished  his  play,  however,  between  the  departure 
and  arrival  of  his  various  guests. 

Two  of  the  most  successful  plays  of  modern  times 
have  been  written  by  women  ;  the  first,  by  Mrs. 
Hodgson  Burnett,  was  founded  on  her  own  novel, 
Little  Lord  Fauntleroy^  of  which  more  anon.  The 
second  had  no  successful  book  to  back  it,  and  yet  it 
ran  over  three  hundred  nights. 

This  as  far  as  serious  drama  is  concerned — for 
burlesque  touched  up  may  run  to  any  length — is  a 
record. 

Mice  and  Men^  by  Mrs.  Ryley,  must  have  had 
something  in  it,  something  special,  or  why  should  a 
play  from  an  almost  unknown  writer  have  taken 
such  a  hold  on  the  London  public .''  It  was  well 
acted,  of  course,  for  that  excellent  artist  Forbes 
Robertson  was  in  it  ;  but  other  plays  have  been  well 
acted  and  yet  have  failed. 

Why,  then,  its  longevity  } 

Its  very  simplicity  must  be  the  answer.  It  carried 
conviction.  It  was  just  a  quaint  little  idyllic  episode 
of    love    and    romance,    deftly    woven    together    with 


THE   ARMY   AND   THE    STAGE        103 

strong  human  interest.  It  aimed  at  nothing  great, 
it  merely  sought  to  entertain  and  amuse.  Love  rules 
the  world,  romance  enthrals  it,  both  were  prettily 
depicted  by  a  woman,  and  the  play  proved  a  brilliant 
success.  To  have  written  so  little  and  yet  made 
such  a  hit  is  rare. 

On  the  other  hand,  one  of  our  most  successful 
playwrights  has  been  very  prolific  in  his  work.  Sir 
Francis  Burnand  has  edited  Punch  for  more  than 
thirty  years,  and  yet  has  produced  over  one  hundred 
and  twenty  plays.  'Tis  true  one  of  the  most  suc- 
cessful of  these  was  written  in  a  night.  Mr. 
Burnand,  as  he  was  then,  went  to  the  St.  James's 
Theatre  one  evening  to  see  Diplomacy^  and  after 
the  performance  walked  home.  On  the  way  the 
idea  for  a  burlesque  struck  him,  so  he  had  some- 
thing to  eat,  found  paper  and  pens,  and  began.  By 
breakfast-time  next  morning  Diplomacy  was  com- 
pleted, and  a  few  days  later  all  London  was  laughing 
over  it.     There  is  a  record  of  industry  and  speed. 

The  stage,  however,  has  not  claimed  so  much  of 
his  attention  of  late  years  as  his  large  family  and 
Mr.  Punch.  Sir  Francis  is  particularly  neat  and 
dapper,  with  a  fresh  complexion  and  grey  hair.  He 
wears  a  pointed  white  beard,  but  looks  remarkably 
youthful.  He  is  a  busy  man,  and  spends  hours  of 
each  day  in  his  well-stocked  library  at  the  Boltons 
(London,  Eng,  :  as  our  American  friends  would 
say),  or  at  Ramsgate,  his  favourite  holiday  resort, 
where  riding  and  sea-boating  afford  him  much  amuse- 
ment,   and    time    for    reflection.       He   is   a    charming 


104  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

dinner-table  companion,  always  full  of  good  humour 
and  amusing  stories. 

It  was  when  dining  one  night  at  the  Burnands' 
home  in  the  Boltons  that  I  met  Sir  John  Tenniel 
after  a  lapse  of  some  years,  for  he  virtually  gave 
up  dining  out  early  in  the  '90's  in  order  to  devote 
his  time  to  his  Punch  cartoon.  One  warm  day  in 
July,  1902,  however,  John  Tenniel  was  persuaded 
to  break  his  rule,  and  proved  as  kind  and  lively  as 
ever.  Although  eighty-two  years  of  age  he  drew  a 
picture  for  me  after  dinner.  There  are  not  many 
men  of  eighty-two  who  could  do  that  ;  but  then, 
did  he  not  draw  the  Punch  cartoon  without  inter- 
mission for  fifty  years  .'' 

*'  What  am  I  to  draw  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  have  nothing 
to  copy  and  no  model  to  help  me." 

"  Britannia,"  I  replied.  "  That  ever-young  lady  is 
such  an  old  friend  of  yours,  you  must  know  every  line 
in  her  face  by  heart."  And  he  did.  The  dear  old 
man's  hand  was  very  shaky,  until  he  got  the  pencil 
on  to  the  paper,  and  then  the  lines  themselves  were 
perfectly  clear  and  distinct ;  years  of  work  on  wood 
blocks  had  taught  him  precision  which  did  not  fail 
him  even  when  over  fourscore. 

Every  one  loves  Sir  John.  He  never  seems  to 
have  given  offence  with  his  cartoons  as  so  many 
have  done  before  and  since.  Cartoonists  and  carica- 
turists ply  a  difficult  trade,  for  so  few  people  like 
to  be  made  fun  of  themselves,  although  they  dearly 
love  a  joke  at  some  one  else's  expense. 

A   few  doors   from  the   Burnands'  charming  house 


THE   ARMY   AND   THE   STAGE       105 

in  Bolton  Gardens  lives  the  author  of  Charley  s 
Aunt. 

When  in  the  city  of  Mexico,  one  broiling  hot 
December  day  in  1900,  I  was  invited  to  dine  and 
go  to  the  theatre.  I  had  only  just  arrived  in  that 
lovely  capital,  and  was  dying  to  see  and  do 
everything. 

''  Will  there  be  any  Indians  amongst  the  audience  } " 
I  inquired. 

*'  Si,  Senora.  The  Indians  and  half-castes  love 
the  theatre,  and  always  fill  the  cheaper  places." 

This  sounded  delightful  ;  a  Spanish  play  acted  in 
Castilian  with  beautiful  costumes  of  matadors  and 
shawled  ladies — what  could  be  better }  Gladly  I 
accepted  the  invitation  to  dine  and  go  to  the  theatre 
afterwards,  where,  as  subsequently  proved,  they  have 
a  strange  arrangement  by  which  a  spectator  either 
pays  for  the  whole  performance,  or  only  to  witness 
one  particular  act. 

We  arrived.  The  audience  looked  interesting  : 
few,  however,  even  in  the  best  places  wore  dress- 
clothes,  any  more  than  they  do  in  the  United 
States.     The  performance  began. 

It  did  not  seem  very  Spanish,  and  somehow  appeared 
familiar.  I  looked  at  the  programme.  "La  Tia 
DE  Carlos." 

What  a  sell  !  I  had  been  brought  to  see  Charley  s 
zAunt. 

One  night  after  my  return  to  London  I  was  dining 
with  William  Heinemann,  the  publisher,  to  meet  the 
great  "Jimmy"  Whistler.     I  was  telling  Mr.  Brandon 


io6  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Thomas,  the  author  of  Charley  s  zAunt^  this  funny 
little  experience,  when  he  remarked  : 

"  I  can  tell  you  another.  My  wife  and  I  had 
been  staying  in  the  Swiss  mountains,  when  one  day 
we  reached  Zurich.  '  Let  us  try  to  get  a  decent 
dinner,'  I  said,  '  for  I  am  sick  of  table  d'hotes.^ 
Accordingly  we  dined  on  the  best  Zurich  could 
produce,  and  then  asked  the  waiter  what  play  he 
would   recommend. 

"  '  The  theatres  are  closed  just  now,'  he  replied. 

"  '  But  surely  something  is  open  ? ' 

"  *  Ah,  well,  yes,  there's  a  sort  of  music  hall,  but  the 
Herrschaften  would  not  care  to  go  there.' 

"  *  Why  not  } '  I  exclaimed,  longing  for  some 
diversion. 

" '  Because  they  are  only  playing  a  very  vulgar 
piece,  it  would  not  please  the  gnddige  Frau^  it  is  a 
stupid  Enghsh  farce.' 

*' '  Never  mind  how  stupid.     Tell  me  its  name.' 

"  '  It  is  called,'  replied  the  waiter,   '  T>ie  Tante.'  " 

Poor  Brandon  Thomas  nearly  collapsed  on  the 
spot,  it  was  his  very  own  play.  They  went.  Need- 
less to  say,  however,  the  author  hardly  recognised 
his  child  in  its  new  garb,  although  he  never  enjoyed 
an  evening  more  thoroughly  in  his  life. 

The  first  draft  of  this  well-known  piece  was  written 
in  three  weeks,  and  afterwards,  as  the  play  was  con- 
siderably cut  in  the  provinces,  Mr.  Thomas  restored 
the  original  matter  and  entirely  re-wrote  it  before  it 
was  produced  in  London,  when  the  author  played 
the    part  of  Sir  Francis  Chesney  himself. 


THE   ARMY   AND   THE   STAGE       107 

I  have  another  recollection  in  connection  with 
Charleys  Aunt.  It  must  have  been  about  1895 
that  my  husband  and  I  were  dining  with  that  delightful 
Httle  gentleman  and  great  Indian  Prince,  the  Gaekwar 
of  Baroda,  and  the  Maharanee  (his  wife),  and  we  all 
went  on  to  the  theatre  to  see  Charley'' s  Aunt.  At 
that  time  His  Highness  the  Gaekwar  was  very  proud 
of  a  grand  new  theatre  he  had  built  in  Baroda,  and 
was  busy  having  plays  translated  for  production.  Several 
Shakespearian  pieces  had  already  been  done.  He 
thought  Charley's  Aunt  might  be  suitable,  but  as 
the  play  proceeded,  turning  to  me  he  remarked  : 

"  This  would  never  do,  it  would  give  my  people 
a  bad  idea  of  English  education  ;  no,  no — I  cannot 
allow  such  a  mistake  as  that." 

So  good  is  His  Highness's  own  opinion  of  our 
education  that  his  sons  are  at  Harrow  and  Oxford  as 
1  write. 

Charley's  Aunt  has  been  played  in  every 
European  language — verily  a  triumph  for  its  author. 
How  happy  and  proud  a  man  ought  to  be  who  has 
brought  so  much  enjoyment  into  life  ;  and  yet 
Brandon  Thomas  feels  almost  obliged  to  blush  every 
time  the  title  is  mentioned.  When  Mr.  Penley  asked 
him  to  write  a  play,  in  spite  of  being  in  sad  need 
of  cash,  he  was  almost  in  despair.  His  eye  fell  upon 
the  photograph  of  an  elderly  relative,  and  showing  it 
to  Penley  he  asked  : 

"  How  would  you  like  to  play  an  old  woman  like 
that.?" 

*'  Delighted,  old  chap  ;  I've   always  wanted  to  play 


io8  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

a  woman's  character."  And  when  the  play  was  written 
Penley  acted  the  part  made  up  like  the  old  lady 
in  the  photograph  which  still  stands  on  Brandon 
Thomas's  mantelshelf. 

London  is  changing  terribly,  although  Charley^s 
Aunt  seems  as  if  it  would  go  on  for  ever.  Old  London 
is  vanishing  in  a  most  distressing  manner.  Within 
a  few  months  Newgate  has  been  pulled  down,  the 
Bluecoat  School  has  disappeared,  and  now  Clifford's 
Inn  has  been  sold  for  ^100,000  and  is  to  be  demolished. 
Many  of  the  sets  of  chambers  therein  contained  beau- 
tiful carving,  and  in  one  of  these  sets  dwelt  Frederick 
Fenn,  the  dramatist,  son  of  Manville  Fenn,  the 
novelist.  He  determined  to  have  a  bachelor  party 
before  quitting  his  rooms,  and  an  interesting  party 
it  proved. 

1  left  home  shortly  after  nine  o'clock  with  a  friend, 
and  when  we  reached  Piccadilly  Circus  we  found  our- 
selves in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  waiting  to  watch 
President  Loubet  drive  past  on  his  way  to  the  Gala 
performance  at  Co  vent  Garden  (July,  1903).  The 
streets  were  charmingly  decorated,  and  must  have 
given  immense  satisfaction  not  only  to  the  President 
of  France  but  to  the  entire  Republic  he  represented. 
From  the  Circus  through  Leicester  Square  the  crowd 
was  standing  ten  or  fifteen  deep  on  either  side  of  the 
road,  and  we  had  various  vicissitudes  in  getting  to  our 
destination  at  all.  The  police  would  not  let  us  pass, 
and  we  drove  round  and  round  back  streets,  unable 
to  get  into  either  the  Strand  or  St.  Martin's  Lane. 
However,  at  last  a  mighty  cheer  told  us  the  royal  party 


THE   ARMY   AND   THE   STAGE       109 

had  passed,  and  we  were  allowed  to  drive  on  our  way 
to  Clifford's  Inn.  Up  a  dark  alley  beyond  the  Law 
Courts  we  trudged,  and  rang  the  big  sonorous  bell 
for  the  porter  to  admit  us  to  the  courtyard  surrounded 
by  chambers. 

Ascending  a  spiral  stone  staircase,  carpeted  in  red  for 
the  occasion,  we  passed  through  massive  oak  doors  with 
their  low  doorways  and  entered  Mr.  Fenn's  rooms. 

**  How  lovely  !  Surely  those  carvings  are  by  the 
famous  Gibbons  ?  " 

"They  are,"  he  said,  "or  at  any  rate  they  are 
reputed  to  be,  and  in  a  fortnight  will  be  sold  by 
auction  to  the  highest  bidder." 

This  wonderful  decoration  had  been  there  for  numbers 
of  years,  the  over-doors,  chimneypieces  and  window- 
frames  were  all  most  beautifully  carved,  and  the  whole 
room  was  panelled  from  floor  to  ceiling.  The  furni- 
ture was  in  keeping.  Beautiful  inlaid  satinwood  tables, 
settees  covered  with  old-fashioned  brocade,  old  Sheffield 
cake-baskets,  were  in  harmony  with  the  setting. 

It  was  quite  an  interesting  little  party,  and  I 
thoroughly  enjoyed  my  chat  with  James  Welsh,  the 
clever  comedian,  who  played  in  the  New  Clown  for 
eighteen  months  consecutively.  Such  an  interesting 
little  man,  with  dark  round  eyes  and  pale  eyelashes, 
and  a  particularly  broad  crown  to  his  head. 

"  I  don't  mind  a  long  run  at  all,"  he  said,  "  because 
every  night  there  is  a  fresh  audience.  Sometimes 
they  are  so  dull  we  cannot  get  hold  of  them  at  all 
till  the  second  act,  and  sometimes  it  is  even  the  end  of 
the  second  act  before  they  are  roused  to  enthusiasm  ; 


no  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

another  time  they  will  see  the  fun  from  the  first  rise  ij: 

of  the  curtain.      Personally  I    prefer  the  audience   to 

be  rather  dull  at  the  beginning,  for  I  like  to  work  them 

up,  and   to  work  up  with   them   myself.     The   most 

enthusiastic   audiences   to   my  mind   are   to    be   found 

in  Scotland — I  am  of  course  speaking  of  low  comedy. 

In   Ireland  they  may  be  as  appreciative,  but   they  are 

certainly  quieter.       Londoners   are   always  difficult   to 

rouse   to    any   expression    of  enthusiasm.      I   suppose 

they  see  too  many  plays,  and  so  become  biased 


CHAPTER    VI 

DESIGNING    THE    DRESSES 

Sarah  Bernhardt's  Dresses  and  Wigs — A  Great  Musician's  Hair — 
Expenses  of  Mounting — Percy  Anderson — Ulysses — The  Eternal 
City— Pi.  Dress  Parade — Armour — Over-elaboration — An  Under- 
study— Miss  Fay  Davis — A  London  Fog — The  Difficulties  of  an 
Engagement. 

MADAME  SARAH  BERNHARDT  is  an  extra- 
ordinary woman.  A  young  artist  of  my 
acquaintance  did  much  work  for  her  at  one  time. 
He  designed  dresses,  and  painted  the  Egyptian, 
Assyrian,  and  other  trimmings.  She  was  always  most 
grateful  and  generous.  Money  seemed  valueless  to 
her  ;  she  dived  her  hand  into  a  bag  of  gold,  and 
holding  it  out  bid  him  take  what  would  repay  him 
for  his  trouble.  He  was  a  true  artist  and  his  gifts 
appealed  to  her. 

"  More,  more,"  she  often  exclaimed.  *'  You  have 
not  reimbursed  yourself  sufficiently — you  have  only 
taken  working-pay  and  allowed  nothing  for  your  talent. 
It  is  the  talent  I  wish  to  pay  for." 

And  she  did. 

On  one  occasion  a  gorgeous  cloak  he  had  designed 
for  her  came  home  ;  a  most  expensive  production. 
She  tried  it  on. 


112  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

*'  Hateful,  hateful  !  "  she  cried.  "  The  bottom  is 
too  heavy,  bring  me  the  scissors,"  and  in  a  moment 
she  had  ripped  off  all  the  lower  trimmings.  The 
artist  looked  aghast,  and  while  he  stood — 

"  Black,"  she  went  on — '*  it  wants  black  "  ;  and 
thereupon  she  pinned  a  great  black  scarf  her  dresser 
brought  her  over  the  mantle.  The  effect  was  magical. 
That  became  one  of  her  most  successful  garments 
for  many  a  day. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  artist  afterwards,  "  she  has  a  great 
and  generous  heart — she  adores  talent,  worships  the 
artistic,  and  her  taste  is  unfailing." 

Wonderful  effects  can  be  gained  on  the  stage  by 
the  aid  of  the  make-up  box — and  the  wig-maker. 

Madame  Sarah  Bernhardt  declares  Clarkson,  of 
London,  to  be  the  '*  king  of  wig-makers,"  and  he 
has  made  every  wig  she  has  worn  in  her  various  parts 
for  many  years. 

*'  She  is  a  wonderful  woman,"  Mr.  Clarkson  said, 
"  she  knows  exactly  what  she  wants,  and  if  she  has 
not  time  to  write  and  enclose  a  sketch — which,  by  the 
way,  she  does  admirably — she  sends  a  long  telegram 
from  Paris,  and  expects  the  wig  to  be  despatched 
almost  as  quickly  as  if  it  went  over  by  a  '  reply-paid 
process.'  " 

"  But  surely  you  get  more  time  than  that  usually  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course  ;  but  twice  I  have  made  wigs 
in  a  few  hours.  Once  for  Miss  Ellen  Terry.  I 
think  it  was  the  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  The  Bells 
— at  any  rate  she  was  to  appear  in  a  small  first 
piece  for  one  night.     At  three  o'clock  that  afternoon 


DRAWING    OF    COSrUME    FOR   j  U  I.l  Kl',    1!Y    PERCY    ANDERSON. 


DESIGNING   THE   DRESSES  113 

the  order  came.  I  set  six  people  to  work  on  six 
different  pieces,  and  at  seven  o'clock  took  them  down 
to  the  theatre  and  pinned  them  on  Miss  Terry's 
head.  The  other  wig  I  had  to  make  so  quickly  was 
for  Madame  Eleonora  Duse.  She  arrived  in  London 
October,  1 903,  and  somehow  the  wigs  went  astray. 
She  wired  to  Paris  to  inquire  who  made  the  one  in 
La  Ville  Afor/^  with  which  Madame  Bernhardt  strangled 
her  victim.  When  the  reply  came  she  sent  for  me, 
and  the  same  night  Madame  Duse  wore  the  new 
wig  in  La  Gioconday 

By-the-bye,  Madame  Duse  has  a  wonderful  wig-box. 
It  is  a  sort  of  miniature  cupboard  made  of  wood, 
from  which  the  front  lets  down.  Inside  are  six 
divisions.  Each  division  contains  one  of  those  weird 
block-heads  on  which  perruques  stand  when  being  re- 
dressed, and  on  every  red  head  rests  a  wig.  These  are 
for  her  different  parts,  the  blocks  are  screwed  tight  into 
the  box,  and  the  wigs  are  covered  lightly  with  chiffon 
for  travelling.  When  the  side  of  the  box  falls  down 
those  six  heads  form  a  gruesome  sight  ! 

Most  of  the  hair  used  in  wig-making  comes  from 
abroad,  principally  from  the  mountain  valleys  of 
Switzerland,  where  the  peasant-girls  wear  caps  and 
sell  their  hair.  A  wig  costs  anything  from  £2  to 
^10,  and  it  is  wonderful  how  little  the  good  ones 
weigh.  They  are  made  on  the  finest  net,  and  each 
hair  is  sewn  on  separately. 

When  Clarkson  was  a  boy  of  twelve  and  a  half 
years  old  he  first  accompanied  his  father,  who  was  a 
hairdresser,   to    the    opera,  and    thus    the  small  youth 

8 


114  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

began  his  profession.  He  still  works  in  the  house 
in  which  he  was  born,  so  he  was  reared  literally  in 
the  wig  trade,  and  now  employs  a  couple  of  hundred 
persons.  What  he  does  not  know  can  hardly  be 
worth  knowing — and  he  is  quite  a  character.  Not 
only  does  he  work  for  the  stage  ;  but  detectives  often 
employ  him  to  paint  their  faces  and  disguise  them 
generally,  and  he  has  even  decorated  a  camel  with 
whiskers  and  grease  paint. 

The  most  expensive  wig  he  ever  made  was  for 
Madame  Sarah  Bernhardt  in  La  Samaritaine.  It  had 
to  be  very  long,  and  naturally  wavy  hair,  so  that  she 
could  throw  it  over  her  face  when  she  fell  at  the 
Saviour's  feet.  In  L' Aiglon  Madame  Bernhardt  wore 
her  own  hair  for  a  long  time,  and  had  it  cut  short 
for  the  purpose  :  but  she  found  it  so  difficult  to  dress 
off  the  stage  that  she  ultimately  ordered  a  wig. 

If  Madame  Bernhardt  is  particular  about  her  wigs 
and  her  dresses  she  has  done  much  to  improve 
theatrical  costumes — she  has  stamped  them  with  an 
individuality  and   artistic   grace. 

A  well-known  musician  travelled  from  a  far  corner 
in  Europe  to  ask  a  wig-maker  to  make  him  a  wig.  He 
arrived  one  day  in  Wellington  Street  in  a  great  state 
of  distress  and  told  his  story.  He  had  prided  himself 
on  his  beautiful,  long,  wavy  hair,  through  which  he 
could  pass  his  fingers  in  dramatic  style,  and  which 
he  could  shake  with  leonine  ferocity  over  a  passage 
which  called  for  such  sentiments.  But  alas !  there 
came  a  day  when  the  hair  began  to  come  out,  and 
the    locks    threatened    to    disappear.       He    travelled 


DESIGNING   THE  DRESSES  115 

hundreds  of  miles  to  London  to  know  if  the  wig-maker 
could  copy  the  top  of  his  head  exactly  before  it  was 
too  late.  Of  course  he  could,  and  consequently  those 
raven  curls  were  matched,  and  one  by  one  were  sewn 
into  the  fine  netting  to  form  the  toupet.  Having 
got  the  semi-wig  exactly  to  cover  his  head,  the  great 
musician  sallied  forth  and  had  his  head  shaved.  Then, 
with  a  little  paste  to  catch  it  down  in  front  and  at 
the  sides,  the  toupet  was  securely  placed  upon  the 
bald  cranium.  For  six  months  that  man  had  his 
head  shaved  daily.  The  effect  was  magical.  When 
he  left  off  shaving  a  new  crop  of  hair  began  to  grow 
with  lightning  rapidity,  and  he  is  now  the  happy 
possessor  of  as  beautiful  a  head  of  hair  as  ever. 

Little  by  little  the  public  has  been  taught  to  expect 
the  reproduction  of  correct  historical  pictures  upon 
the  stage,  and  such  being  the  case,  artists  have  risen 
to  the  occasion,  men  who  have  given  years  of  their 
lives  to  the  study  of  apparel  of  particular  periods. 

Designing  stage  dress  is  no  easy  matter ;  long  and 
ardent  research  is  necessary  for  old  costume  pieces, 
and  men  who  have  made  this  their  speciality  read 
and  sketch  at  museums,  and  sometimes  travel  to  far 
corners  of  the  world,  to  get  exactly  what  they  want. 
As  a  rule  the  British  Museum  provides  reliable  material 
for  historical  costume. 

Think  of  the  hundreds,  aye  hundreds,  of  costumes 
necessary  for  a  heavy  play  at  the  Lyceum  or  His 
Majesty's — think  of  what  peasantry,  soldiers,  to  say 
nothing  of  fairies,  require,  added  to  which  four  or 
five  dresses  for  each  of  the  chief  performers,  not  only 


ii6  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

cost  months  of  labour  to  design  and  execute,  but  need 
large  sums  of  money  to  perfect.  As  much  as  _^  10,000 
has  often  been  spent  in   the  staging  of  a  single  play. 

This  is  no  meagre  sum,  and  should  the  play  fail 
the  actor-manager  who  has  risked  that  large  amount 
(or  his  syndicate)  must  bear  the  loss. 

Some  wonderful  stage  pictures  have  been  produced 
within  the  last  few  years — and  not  a  few  of  them 
were  the  work  of  Mr,  Percy  Anderson,  Sir  Alma- 
Tadema,  and  Mr.  Percy  Macquoid.  It  is  an 
interesting  fact  that,  while  the  designs  for  Ulysses 
cost  Mr.  Anderson  six  months'  continual  labour, 
he  managed  to  draw  the  elaborate  costumes  for  Lewis 
Waller's  production  of  The  Three  Musketeers  in  three 
days,  working  eighteen  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four, 
because  the  dresses  were  wanted  immediately. 

Percy  Anderson  did  not  start  as  an  artist  in 
his  youth,  he  was  not  born  in  the  profession,  but 
as  a  mature  man  allowed  his  particular  bent  to  lead 
him  to  success.  He  lives  in  a  charming  little  house 
bordering  on  the  Regent's  Park,  where  he  works  with 
his  brush  all  day,  and  his  pencil  far  into  the  night. 
His  studio  is  a  pretty  snuggery  built  on  at  the  back 
of  the  house,  which  is  partly  studio,  partly  room,  and 
partly  greenhouse.  Here  he  does  his  work  and  ac- 
complishes those  delightfully  sketchy  portraits  for  which 
he  is  famous,  his  innumerable  designs  for  theatrical 
apparel. 

When  I  asked  Mr.  Anderson  which  costumes  were 
most  difficult  to  draw,   he  replied  : 

"Either  those  in  plays  of  an  almost  prehistoric  period, 


DESIGNING   THE   DRESSES  117 

when  the  materials  from  which  to  work  are  extremely 
scanty,  or  those  that  introduce  quite  modern  and  up- 
to-date  ceremonial. 

*'  As  an  instance  of  the  former  Ulysses  proved  an 
exceedingly  difficult  piece  for  which  to  design  the 
costumes,  because  the  only  authentic  information  ob- 
tainable was  from  castes  and  sketches  of  remains  found 
during  the  recent  excavations  at  Knossus,  in  Crete, 
that  have  since  been  exhibited  at  the  Winter  Exhibition 
at  Burlington  House,  but  which  were  at  the  time 
reposing  in  a  private  room  at  the  British  Museum, 
where  I  was  able  to  make  some  rough  sketches  and 
notes  by  the   courtesy  of  Mr.   Sidney  Colvin." 

"How  did  you  manage  about  colour.?" 

"  My  guide  as  to  the  colours  in  use  at  that  remote 
period  of  time  was  merely  a  small  fragment  of  early 
Mycenean  mural  decoration  from  Knossus,  in  which 
three  colours,  namely,  yellow,  blue,  and  a  terra-cotta- 
red,  together  with  black  and  white,  were  the  only 
tones  used,  and  to  these  three  primary  colours  I 
accordingly  confined  myself,  but  I  made  one  intro- 
duction, a  bright  apple-green  dress  which  served  to 
throw  the  others  into  finer  relief.  From  these 
extremely  scanty  materials  I  had  to  design  over  two 
hundred  costumes,  none  of  which  were  exactly 
alike." 

The  brilliancy  of  the  result  all  playgoers  will 
remember.     The  frontispiece  shows  one  of  the  designs. 

As  an  instance  of  a  play  introducing  intricate 
modern  ceremonial  for  which  every  garment  worn 
had   some   special   significance.    The   Eternal    City  may 


ii8  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

be  mentioned.  In  that  Mr.  Anderson  had  the  greatest 
difficulty  in  discovering  exactly  what  uniform  or  vest- 
ment would  be  worn  by  the  Pope's  entourage  on 
important  private  occasions,  such  as  the  scene  in  the 
Gardens  of  the  Vatican,  where  His  Holiness  was 
carried  in  and  saluted  by  the  members  of  his  guard 
before  being  left  to  receive   his  private  audiences. 

Mr.  Anderson,  however,  received  invaluable  assist- 
ance in  these  matters  from  Mr.  De  La  Roche  Francis, 
who,  besides  having  relatives  in  high  official  positions 
in  Rome,  had  himself  been  attached  to  the  Papal 
Court.  All  orders  and  decorations  worn  by  the  various 
characters  in  The  Eternal  City  were  modelled  from 
the  originals.  Mr.  Anderson  usually  makes  a  separate 
sketch  for  every  costume  to  be  worn  by  each  character, 
in  order  to  judge  of  the  whole  effect,  which  picture 
he  supplements  by  drawings  of  the  back  and  side 
views,  reproductions  of  hats,  head-dresses,  hair,  and 
jewellery. 

This  is  thoroughness — but  after  all  thoroughness  is 
the  only  thing  that  really  succeeds.  From  these 
sketches  the  articles  are  cut  out  and  made  after  Mr. 
Anderson  has  passed  the  materials  as  satisfactory  sub- 
mitted to  him.  Sometimes  nothing  proves  suitable, 
and  then  something  has  to  be  woven  to  meet  his  own 
particular  requirements. 

Mr.  Anderson  received  orders  direct  from 
Beerbohm  Tree  for  King  John^  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,  Herod,  Ulysses,  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor, 
Resurrection,  and  The  Eternal  City^  but  in  some  cases 
the  orders  come  from  the  authors.     For  instance,  Mr. 


DESIGNING   THE   DRESSES  119 

Pinero  wrote  asking  him  to  design  those  delightful 
Victorian  costumes  for  Trelawny  of  the  JVells.  Captain 
Basil  Hood  arranged  with  him  about  the  dresses  for 
Merrie  England ,  and  J.  M.  Barrie  for  those  in 
Quality  Street. 

Some   of  the    old-style    dresses    do    not    allow    of 
much     movement,    and     therefore    it    is    sometimes 
necessary  to  make  the  garments  in  such   a  way  that, 
while  the   effect   remains,   the   actor   has   full  play  for 
his  limbs.     For  instance,  much  adaptation  of  this  sort 
was  necessary  for  Richard  If.  at  His   Majesty's.      Mr. 
Anderson  was  about  three  months  designing  the  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dresses  for  this  marvellous  spectacle. 
He   sought    inspiration   at    the    British    Museum    and 
Westminster,  the  Bluemantle   at  the  Heralds'  College 
giving    him    valuable   information  with   regard  to  the 
heraldry.     All  this  shows  the   pains   needed  and  taken 
to  produce  an  accurate  and   harmonious  stage  picture. 
The  designer  is  given  a  free  hand,  he  chooses  his 
own  materials  to  the  smallest  details — often  a  guinea 
a  yard  is  paid  for   silks  and  velvets — and  he  super- 
intends everything,  even  the  grouping  of  the  crowds, 
so  as   to  give  most  effect  to   his  colouring.     "  Dress 
parades,"    of   which    there    are    several,    are    those    in 
which    all    the    chorus   and   crowds    have    to   appear, 
therefore  their  dresses  are  usually  made  first,  so  as  to 
admit  of  ample  study  of  colour  before  the  "  principals  " 
receive    theirs.      The   onlooker  hardly    recognises    the 
trouble    this    entails,    nor    how    well  thought  out    the 
scheme   of  colour  must   be,   so   that  when   the  crowd 
breaks    up    into   groups   the    dresses    shall    not    clash. 


I20  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

The  artist  must  always  work,  up  to  one  broad  effect 
in  order  to  make  a  decorative  scene. 

It  may  be  interesting  to  note  that  there  is  one 
particular  colour — French  blue — practically  the  shade 
of  hyacinths,  which  is  particularly  useful  for  stage 
effect  as  it  does  not  lose  any  of  its  tint  by  artificial 
light.  It  can  only  be  dyed  in  one  river  at  Lyons, 
in  France,  where  there  is  some  chemical  in  the  water 
which  exactly  suits  and  retains  the  particular  shade 
desired.  We  are  improving  in  England,  however, 
and  near  Haslemere  wonderful  fabrics  and  colours 
are  now  produced.  There  are  excellent  costumiers 
in  England,  some  of  the  best,  in  fact,  many  of  whom 
lay  themselves  out  for  work  of  a  particular  period  ; 
but  all  the  armour  is  still  made  in  France.  That 
delightful  singer  and  charming  man,  Eugene  Oudin, 
wore  a  beautiful  suit  of  chain  armour  as  the  Templar 
in  Ivanhoe^  which  cost  considerably  over  /^loo,  and 
proved  quite  light  and  easy  to  wear.  (During  the  last 
five  years  armour  has  become  cheaper.)  It  was  a  beau- 
tiful dress,  including  a  fine  plumed  helmet,  and  as  he 
and  my  husband  were  the  same  size  and  build  he 
several  times  lent  it  to  him  for  fancy  balls.  It  looked 
like  the  old  chain  armour  in  the  Tower  of  London 
or  the  Castle  of  Madrid,  and  yet  did  not  weigh  as 
many  ounces  as  they  do  pounds,  so  carefully  had 
it  been  made  to  allow  ease  and  movement  to  the 
singer. 

After  all,  it  is  really  a  moot  question  whether 
tremendous  elaboration  of  scenery  is  a  benefit  to 
dramatic     production.      At    the    present    time     much 


DESIGNING   THE   DRESSES  121 

attention  is  drawn  from  the  main  interest,  and  instead 
of  appreciating  the  acting  or  the  play,  it  is  the  stage 
carpentering  and  gorgeous  "  mounting  "  that  wins  the 
most  applause. 

This  is  all  very  well  to  a  certain  extent,  but  it 
is  hardly  educating  the  public  to  grasp  the  real 
value  of  play  or  acting  if  both  be  swamped  by 
scenery  and  silks.  Lately  we  had  an  opportunity  of 
seeing  really  good  performances  without  their  being 
enhanced  by  scenic  effect,  such  as  Twelfth  Night,  by 
the  Elizabethan  Stage  Society,  and  Everyman.  These 
representations  were  an  intellectual  treat,  such  as  one 
seldom  enjoys,  and  were  certainly  calculated  to  raise 
the  standard  of  purely  theatrical  work.  Strictness 
of  detail  may  do  much  to  make  the  tout  ensemble 
perfect,  but  does  not  the  piece  lose  more  than  it 
gains  ^ 

Again,  the  careful  rehearsing  which  is  now  in 
fashion  tends  to  make  the  performers  more  or  less 
puppets  in  the  hands  of  the  stage  manager  or  author, 
rather  than  real  individual  actors.  Individuality  except 
in  "  stars "  is  not  wanted  nor  appreciated.  Further, 
long  runs  are  the  ruin  of  actors.  Instead  of  being 
kept  up  to  the  mark,  alert,  their  brains  active  by 
constantly  learning  and  performing  new  roles,  they 
simply  become  automata,  and  can  almost  go  through 
their    parts    in  their  sleep.     Surely  this  is   not  acting. 

Every  important  role  has  an  understudy.  Generally 
some  one  playing  a  minor  part  in  the  programme  is 
allowed  the  privilege  of  understudying  a  star.  By  this 
arrangement   he  is  at  the  theatre  every  night,  and   if 


122  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

the  star  cannot  shine,  the  minor  individual  goes  on 
to  twinkle  instead,  his  own  part  being  played  by 
some  lesser  luminary.  Many  a  man  or  woman  has 
found  an  opening  and  ultimate  success  in  this  way, 
through  the  misfortune  of  another. 

At  some  theatres  the  understudy  is  paid  for 
performing,  or  is  given  a  present  of  some  sort  in 
recognition  of  his  services,  while  at  others,  even 
good  ones,  he  gets  nothing  at  all,  the  honour  being 
considered  sufficient  reward. 

No  one  misses  a  performance  if  he  can  possibly 
help  it  ;  there  are  many  reasons  for  not  doing  so  ; 
and  sometimes  actors  go  through  this  strain  when 
physically  unfit  for  work,  rather  than  be  out  of  the 
bill  for  a  single  night.  Theatrical  folk  go  through 
many  vicissitudes  in  their  endeavour  to  keep  faith 
with  the  public. 

For  instance,  one  terribly  foggy  night  in  1902 
during  the  run  of  Iris  all  London  was  steeped  in  black- 
ness. It  was  truly  an  awful  fog,  just  one  of  those 
we  share  with  Chicago  and  Christiania.  Miss  Fay 
Davis,  that  winsome  American  actress,  was  playing 
the  chief  part  in  Pinero's  play  and  went  down  to 
the  theatre  every  night  from  her  home  in  Sloane 
Square  in  a  brougham  she  always  hired,  with  an  old 
coachman  she  knew  well. 

She  ate  her  dinner  in  despair  at  the  fog,  her  mother 
fidgeted  anxiously  and  wondered  what  was  to  happen, 
when  the  bell  rang,  long  before  the  appointed  time, 
and  the  carriage  was  announced. 

"Oh,    we'll    get    there   somehow,    miss,"    the    old 


DESIGNING   THE   DRESSES  123 

coachman  remarked  ;  so,  well  wrapped  up  in  furs,  the 
daring  lady  started  for  her  work.  They  did  get  there 
after  an  anxious  journey,  assisted  by  policemen  and 
torches,   Miss  Davis  alighted,  saying  : 

"  I  daresay  it  will  be  all  right  by  eleven,  but  any- 
way you  must  fetch  me  on  foot  if  you  can't  drive." 

"  Aye,   aye,  ma'am,"  replied  her  worthy  friend,  and 
off  he  drove.      Miss  Davis  went  to  her  dressing-room, 
feeling  a  perfect  heroine  for  venturing  forth,  and  when 
she  was  half  ready  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door. 
"  No  performance  to-night,  miss." 
"  What  ?  " 

"  Only  half  the  actors  have  turned  up,  and  there 
isn't  a  single  man  or  woman  in  the  theatre — pit  empty, 
gallery  empty,  everything  empty — so  they've  decided 
not  to  play  Iris  to-night.  No  one  can  see  across 
the  footlights." 

It  was  true  ;  so  remarkable  was  that  particular  fog, 
several  of  the  playhouses  had  to  shut-up-shop  for 
the  night.  How  Miss  Davis  got  home  remains  a 
mystery. 

A  very  beautiful  actress  of  my  acquaintance  rarely 
has  an  engagement.  She  acts  well,  she  looks  magni- 
ficent, and  has  played  many  star  parts  in  the  provinces, 
yet  she  is  constantly  among  the  unemployed.  "  Why," 
I  once  asked,  "do  you  find  it  so  difficult  to  get  work?" 
"  Because  I'm  three  inches  too  tall.  No  man  likes 
to  be  dwarfed  by  a  woman  on  the  stage.  In  a 
ball-room  the  smaller  the  man  the  taller  the  partner 
he  chooses,  and  this  sometimes  applies  to  matrimony, 
but  on  the  stage  never." 


124  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

"  Can  you  play  with  low  heels  ? "  she  is  often 
asked  when  seeking  an  engagement. 

"  Certainly,"  is  the  reply. 

"  Would  you  mind  standing  beside  me  .? " 

'*  Delighted." 

"  Too  tall,  I'm  afraid,"  says  the  man. 

"  But  I  can  dress  my  hair  low  and  wear  small 
hats." 

*'  Too  tall  all  the  same,  I'm  afraid." 

And  for  this  reason  she  loses  one  engagement 
after  another.  Most  of  the  actor-managers  have 
their  own  wives  or  recognised  '*  leading  ladies,"  so 
that  in  London,  openings  for  new  stars  are  few  and  far 
between,  and  when  the  actress,  however  great  her 
talent  or  her  charm,  makes  the  leading  actor  look 
small,  she  is  waved  aside  and  some  one  inferior  takes 
her   place. 

On  one  occasion  it  was  a  woman  who  refused  to 
act  with  my  friend.  She  had  been  engaged  for  a 
big  part — but  when  this  woman — once  the  darling  of 
society,  and  a  glittering  star  upon  the  stage — saw  her 
fellow-worker,  she  said  : 

*'  I  can't  act  with  you,  you  would  make  me  look 
insignificant ;  besides,  you  are  too  good-looking." 


CHAPTER    VII 

SUFFER    ON   THE    STAGE 

Reception  on  the  St.  James's  Stage — An  Indian  Prince — His  Comments 
— The  Audience — George  Alexander's  Youth — How  he  missed  a 
Fortune — How  he  learns  a  Part — A  Scenic  Garden — Love  of 
the  Country — Actors'  Pursuits — Strain  of  Theatrical  Life — Life 
and  Death— Fads — Mr.  Maude's  Dressing-room — Sketches  on 
Distempered  Walls— Arthur  Bourchier  and  his  Dresser — John 
Hare — Early  and  late  Theatres — A  Solitary  Dinner — An  Hour's 
Make-up — A  Forgetful  Actor — Bonne  camaraderie — Theatrical 
Salaries — Treasury  Day — Thriftlessness — The  Advent  of  Stalls — 
The  Bancrofts — The  Haymarket  photographs — A  Dress  Rehearsal. 

ONE  of  the  most  delightful  theatrical  entertain- 
ments I  ever  remember  was  held  by  Mr. 
George  Alexander  on  the  stage  of  the  St.  James's 
Theatre.  It  was  in  honour  of  the  Coronation  of 
Edward  VII.,  and  given  to  the  Indian  Princes  and 
Colonial  visitors. 

The  play  preceding  ^he  reception  was  that  charming 
piece  Paolo  and  Francesa.  I  sat  in  the  stalls,  and  on 
my  right  hand  was  a  richly  attired  Indian,  who  wore  a 
turban  lavishly  ornamented  with  jewels.  I  had  seen 
him  a  short  while  previously  at  a  Court  at  Buckingham 
Palace,  one  of  those  magnificent  royal  evening  recep- 
tions Queen  Alexandra  has  instituted  instead  of  those 
dreary    afternoon    Drawing-rooms.       This    gentleman 

125 


126  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

had  been  there  when  the  Royalties  received  the  Indian 
Princes  in  June,  1902,  the  occasion  when  the  royal 
cortege  promenaded  through  those  spacious  rooms 
with  such  magnificent  effect.  It  was  the  Court  held  a 
few  days  prior  to  the  date  first  fixed  for  the  Coronation 
— a  ceremony  postponed,  as  all  the  world  knows,  till 
some  weeks  later  in  consequence  of  the  King's  sudden 
illness. 

My  princely  neighbour  was  very  grand.  He  wore 
that  same  huge  ruby  at  the  side  of  his  head,  set  in 
diamonds  and  ornamented  with  an  osprey,  which  had 
excited  so  much  admiration  at  Buckingham  Palace. 
Although  small  he  was  a  fine-looking  man  and  had 
charming  manners.  He  read  his  programme  carefully 
and  seemed  much  interested  in  the  performance,  then  he 
looked  through  his  opera-glasses  and  appeared  puzzled; 
suddenly  I  realised  he  wanted  to  know  something. 

"  You  follow  the  play  }  "  I  asked  ;  "  or  can  I  explain 
anything  to  you  }  " 

"  Thank  you  so  much,"  he  replied  in  charming 
English.  "  I  can  follow  it  pretty  well,  but  I  cannot 
quite  make  out  whether  the  lovely  young  lady  is 
really  going  to  marry  that  hump-backed  man.  Surely 
she  ought  to  marry  the  handsome  young  fellow.  She 
is  so  lily-lovely." 

"  No,  Francesca  marries  Giovanni." 

"  Ah,  it  is  too  sad,  poor  thing,"  answered  the  Indian 
gentleman,  apparently  much  grieved.  He  turned  to 
his  neighbour,  who  did  not  speak  English,  and  retailed 
the  information.  Their  distress  was  really  amusing. 
Evidently   the  lovely    white    lady  (Miss  Millard)  de- 


SUPPER    ON  THE   STAGE  127 

served  a  better  fate  according  to  their  ideas,  for  he 
repeatedly  expressed  his  distress  as  the  play  proceeded. 
Before  he  left  the  theatre  that  night  he  crossed  the 
stage,  and  making  a  profound  bow,  thanked  me  for 
helping  him  to  understand  the  play.  His  gratitude 
and  Oriental  politeness  were  charming. 

The  St.  James's  presented  a  gay  scene.  The  Indian 
dresses,  the  diamonds,  and  extra  floral  decorations 
rendered  it  a  regular  gala  performance.  At  the  usual 
hour  the  curtain  descended.  The  general  public  left  ; 
but  invited  guests  remained.  We  rose  from  our  seats 
and  conversed  with  friends,  while  a  perfect  army  of 
stage  carpenters  and  strange  women,  after  moving  out 
the  front  row  of  stalls,  brought  flights  of  steps  and 
made  delightfully  carpeted  staircases  lead  up  to  either 
side  of  the  stage.  Huge  palms  and  lovely  flowers 
banked  the  banisters  and  hid  the  orchestra.  Within 
a  few  moments  the  whole  place  resembled  a  con- 
servatory fitted  up  as  for  a  rout.  It  was  all  done  as 
if  by  magic.  Methinks  Mr.  Alexander  must  have 
had  several  "  stage  rehearsals "  to  accomplish  results 
so  admirable  with   such  rapidity. 

The  curtain  rose,  the  stage  had  been  cleared,  and 
there  at  the  head  of  the  staircase  stood  the  handsome 
actor-manager  in  plain  dress  clothes,  washed  and 
cleaned  from  his  heavy  make-up,  and  with  his  smiling 
wife  ready  to  receive  their  guests. 

At  the  back  of  the  stage  the  scenery  had  been 
arranged  to  form  a  second  room,  wherein  supper  was 
served  at  a  bufi^et. 

It  was  all   admirably  done.     Most  of  the  Colonial 


128  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Premiers  were  there,  many  of  the  Indian  Princes, 
and  a  plentiful  sprinkling  of  the  leading  lights  of 
London.  Of  course  a  stage  is  not  very  big  and 
the  numbers  had  to  be  limited  ;  but  about  a  couple 
of  hundred  persons  thoroughly  enjoyed  that  supper 
behind  the  footlights  at  the  St.  James's  Theatre. 
Many  of  the  people  had  never  been  on  a  stage  before, 
and  it  was  rather  amusing  to  see  them  peeping 
behind  the  flies,  and  asking  weird  questions  from  the 
scene-shifters.  Some  were  surprised  to  find  the 
floor  was  not  level,  but  a  gentle  incline,  for  all 
audiences  do  not  know  the  necessity  of  raising  the 
back  figures,  so  that  those  in  front  of  the  house  may 
see  all  the  performers. 

A  party  on  the  stage  is  always  interesting,  and 
generally  of  rare  occurrence,  although  Sir  Henry 
Irving  and  Mr.  Beerbohm  Tree  both  gave  suppers 
in  honour  of  the  Coronation,  so  England's  distin- 
guished visitors  had  several  opportunities  of  enjoying 
these  unique  receptions.  At  the  supper  at  His 
Majesty's  Theatre  a  few  nights  later  the  chief  attrac- 
tions besides  the  Beerbohm  Trees  were  Mrs.  Kendal 
and  Miss  Ellen  Terry,  the  latter  still  wearing  her  dress 
as  Mistress  Page.  Every  one  wanted  to  shake  hands 
with  her,  and  not  a  few  were  saddened  to  see  her 
using  those  grey  smoked  glasses  she  always  dons 
when  not  actually  before  the  footlights. 

George  Alexander  has  had  a  most  successful  career, 
but  he  was  not  cradled  on  the  stage.  His  father 
was  an  Ayrshire  man  and  the  boy  was  brought 
up    for    business.       Not    liking   that     he     turned     to 


Pholo  hv  Lnnaftti;  2^11,  Old  Bond  SI) -it,  London,  W. 


MR.    GP:0RGE    ALEXANDER. 


SUPPER    ON   THE   STAGE  129 

medicine,  and  still  being  dissatisfied  he  abandoned 
the  doctor's  art  at  an  early  stage  and  took  a  post 
in  a  silk  merchant's  office.  This  brought  him  to 
London.  From  that  moment  he  was  a  constant 
theatre-goer,  and  in  September,  1879,  made  his  first 
bow  behind  the  footlights.  He  owes  much  of  his 
success  to  the  training  he  received  in  Sir  Henry 
Irving's  Company  at  the  Lyceum.  There  is  no 
doubt  much  of  the  business  learned  in  early  youth  has 
stood  him  in  good  stead  in  his  theatrical  ventures, 
and  much  of  the  artistic  taste  and  desire  for  per- 
fection in  stage-mounting  so  noticeable  at  the  St. 
James's  was  imbibed  in  the  early  days  at  the  Lyceum. 
It  takes  a  great  deal  to  make  a  successful  actor- 
manager  ;  he  must  have  literary  and  artistic  taste, 
business  capacity,  and  withal  knowledge  of  his  craft. 

Li  1 89 1  he  took  the  St.  James's  Theatre  and  began 
a  long  series  of  successes.  He  has  gone  through  the 
mill,  worked  his  way  from  the  bottom  to  the  top, 
and  being  possessed  of  an  exceptionally  clear  business 
head,  has  made  fewer  mistakes  than  many  others  in 
his  profession. 

Mr.  Alexander  tells  a  good  story  about  himself: 
"  For  many  months  I  continually  received  very  long 
letters  from  a  lady  giving  me  her  opinion  not  only, 
on  current  stage  matters,  but  on  the  topics  of  the 
hour,  with  graphic  descriptions  of  herself — her  doings 
— her  likes  and  dislikes.  She  gave  no  address,  but 
her  letters  usually  bore  the  postmark  of  a  country 
town  not  a  hundred  miles  from  London.  She  confided 
in  me  that  she  was  a  spinster,  and  that  she  did   not 

9 


I30  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

consider  her  relations  sympathetic.  She  was  obviously- 
well-to-do — I  gathered  this  from  her  account  of  her 
home  and  her  daily  life  as  she  described  them. 
Suddenly  her  letters  ceased,  and  I  wondered  what  had 
happened.  Almost  two  months  after  I  received  her 
last  letter,  I  had  a  communication  from  a  firm  of 
lawyers  asking  for  an  appointment.  I  met  them — two 
very  serious-looking  gentlemen  they  were  too  !  After 
a  good  deal  of  preliminary  talk  they  came  to  their 
point. 

" '  You  know  Miss '  said  the  elder  of  the  men. 

"'No,'   I  replied. 

"  '  But  you  do,'  he  said.  '  She  has  written  to  you 
continually.' 

"  This  was  very  puzzling,  but  following  up  the  slight 
clue,  I  asked  : 

"  '  Is  her  Christian  name   Mary  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,'  he  replied. 

"  '  And  she  lives  at  .?  ' 

"  Then  1  knew  whom  they  meant.  Their  mission, 
it  seemed,  was  to  tell  me  that  the  lady  had  been  very 
ill,  and  fearing  she  was  going  to  die,  had  expressed 
a  wish  to  alter  her  will  in  my  favour.  As  the  lawyers 
had  acted  for  her  family  for  many  years,  and  were 
friends  of  her  relations,  they  had  taken  her  instructions 
quietly,  but  after  much  discussion  in  private  had 
decided  to  call  on  me  and  inform  me  of  the  facts, 
and  they  asked  me  to  write  a  letter  to  them  stating 
that  such  a  course  would  be  distasteful  to  me  and 
unfair  to  her  relations.  I  did  so  in  strong  terms, 
and  so   I  lost  a  little  fortune." 


SUPPER   ON  THE  STAGE  131 

When  Mr.  Alexander  learns  a  new  part  he  and  his 
wife  retire  to  their  cottage  at  Chorley  Wood  to  study. 
I  bicycled  thither  one  day  from  Chalfont  St.  Peter's, 
when  to  my  disappointment  the  servant  informed  me 
they  were  '*  out." 

*'  Oh  dear,  how  sad  !  "  I  said,  "  for  it  is  so  hot,  and 
I'm  tired  and  wanted  some  tea." 

Evidently  this  wrung  her  heart,  for  she  said  she 
would  "go  and  see."  She  went,  and  immediately 
Mr.  Alexander  appeared  to  bid  me  welcome. 

"  I'm  working,"  he  said,  "  and  the  maid  has  orders 
not  to  admit  any  one  without  special  permission." 

What  a  pretty  scene.  Lying  in  a  hammock  in  the 
orchard  on  that  hot  summer's  day  was  the  actor- 
manager  of  the  St.  James's  Theatre.  Seated  on  a 
garden  chair  was  his  wife,  simply  dressed  in  white 
serge  and  straw  hat.  On  her  lap  lay  the  new  type- 
written play  in  its  brown  paper  covers,  and  at  her  feet 
was  Boris,  the  famous  hound.  The  Alexanders  had 
been  a  fortnight  at  the  cottage  working  hard  at  the 
play,  and  at  the  moment  of  my  arrival  Mrs.  Alexander 
was  hearing  her  husband  his  part.  Not  only  does 
she  do  this,  but  she  makes  excellent  suggestions. 
She  studies  the  plays,  too,  and  her  taste  is  of  the 
greatest  value  as  regards  dresses,  stage  decorations,  or 
the  arrangement  of  crowds.  Although  she  has  never 
played  professionally,  Mrs.  Alexander  knows  all  the 
ins  and  outs  of  theatrical  life,  and  is  of  the  greatest 
help  to  her  husband  in  the  productions. 

Had  a  stranger  entered  a  compartment  of  a  train 
between  Chorley  Wood  and  London  a  few  days  later. 


132  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

he  might  have  thought  George  Alexander  and  I  were 
about  to  commit  murder,  suicide,  or  both. 

"  What  have  you  got  there  ?"  asked  the  actor  when 
we  met  on  the  platform. 

"  A  gun,"  was  my  reply. 

"  A  gun  ?  " 

"Yes,  a  gun.  I'm  taking  it  to  London  to  be 
mended." 

"  Ha  ha  !  I  can  beat  that,"  he  laughed.  "  See 
what  I  have  here,"  and  opening  a  little  box  he  dis- 
closed half  a  dozen  razors. 

"  Razors  !  "  I  exclaimed. 

^'  Yes,  razors  ;  so  be  wary  with  your  sanguinary 
weapon,  for  mine  mean  worse  mischief." 

He  was  taking  the  razors  to  London  to  be 
sharpened. 

It  was  fortunate  no  accident  happened  to  that  train, 
or  a  gun  and  six  razors  might  have  formed  food  for 
"  public  inquiry." 

It  is  a  curious  thing  how  many  actors  and  actresses 
like  to  shake  the  dust  of  the  stage  from  their  feet  on 
leaving  the  theatre.  They  seem  to  become  satiated 
with  publicity,  to  long  for  the  country  and  an  outdoor, 
freer  life,  and  in  many  instances  they  not  only  long  for 
it,  but  actually  succeed  in  obtaining  it,  and  the  last 
trains  on  Saturday  night  are  often  full  of  theatrical 
folk  seeking  repose  far  from  theatres  till  Monday 
afternoon. 

Recreation  and  entire  change  of  occupation  are 
absolutely  necessary  to  the  brain-worker,  and  the  man 
is  wise  who  realises  this.      If  he  does,  and  seeks  com- 


SUPPER   ON  THE  STAGE  133 

plete  rest  from  mental  strain,  he  will  probably  have 
a  long  and  successful  career ;  otherwise  the  break- 
down is  sure  to  come,  and  may  come  with  such 
force  as  to  leave  the  victim  afflicted  for  hfe,  so  it  is 
far  wiser  for  the  brain-worker  of  whatever  profession 
or  business  to  realise  this  at  an  early  stage.  In  this 
respect  actors  are  as  a  rule  wiser  than  their  fellow- 
workers,  and  seek  and  enjoy  recreation  on  Sunday  and 
Monday,  which  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  many 
lawyers,  doctors,  painters,  or  literary  men. 

The  strain  of  theatrical  life  is  great.  No  one 
should  attempt  to  go  upon  the  stage  who  is  not 
strong.  If  there  be  any  constitutional  weakness, 
theatrical  life  will  find  it  out.  Extremes  of  heat 
and  cold  have  to  be  borne.  Low  dresses  or  thick 
furs  have  to  be  worn  in  succeeding  acts.  The 
atmosphere  of  gas  and  sulphur  is  often  bad,  but 
must  be  endured. 

A  heavy  part  exhausts  an  actor  in  a  few  minutes 
as  much  as  carrying  a  hod  of  bricks  all  day  does 
a  labourer.  He  may  have  to  change  his  under- 
clothing two  or  three  times  in  an  evening,  in  spite 
of  all  his  dresser's  rubbing  down.  The  mental  and 
physical  strain  affects  the  pores  of  the  skin  and 
exhausts  the  body,  that  is  why  one  hardly  ever  finds 
an  actor  fat.  He  takes  too  much  physical  exercise, 
takes  too  much  out  of  himself,  ever  to  let  superfluous 
flesh  accumulate  upon  his  bones. 

Yes,  the  actor's  life  is  often  a  mental  strain,  of 
which  the  following  is  a  striking  instance,  A  very 
devoted    couple    were    once    caused   much   anxiety   by 


134  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

the  wife's  serious  and  protracted  illness.  Months 
wore  on,  and  every  night  the  husband  played  his 
part,  wondering  what  news  would  greet  him  when 
he  returned  home.  At  last  it  was  decided  that  an 
operation  was  necessary.  It  was  a  grave  operation, 
one  of  life  and  death,  but  it  had  to  be  faced. 

One  morning  the  wife  bade  her  bairns  and  her 
home  good-bye,  and  drove  off  with  her  spouse  to  a 
famous  surgical  home.  That  night  the  poor  actor 
had  to  play  his  comic  part,  with  sad  and  anxious 
heart  he  had  to  smile  and  caper  and  be  amusing. 
Think  of  the  mockery  of  it  all.  Next  morning  he 
was  up  early,  toying  with  his  breakfast,  in  order  to 
be  at  the  home  before  nine  o'clock,  when  that  serious 
operation  was  to  be  performed.  He  did  not  see 
his  wife — that  would  have  upset  them  both — but  like 
a  caged  lion  he  walked  up  and  down,  up  and  down 
in  an  adjoining  room.  At  last  came  the  glad  tidings 
that  it  was  over,  and  all  had  so  far  gone  satisfactorily. 

Back  to  the  theatre  he  went  that  night,  having 
heard  the  latest  bulletin,  and  played  his  part  with 
smiling  face,  knowing  his  wife  was  hovering  between 
life  and  death.  Next  morning  she  was  not  so  well. 
It  was  a  matinee  day,  and  in  an  agony  of  anxiety 
and  excitement  that  poor  man  played  two  performances, 
receiving  wires  about  her  condition  between  the  acts. 
Think  of  it !  We  often  laugh  at  men  and  women,  who 
may  be  for  all  we  know,  acting  with  aching  hearts. 
Comedy  and  tragedy  are  closely  interwoven  in  life, 
perhaps  especially  so  in  theatrical  life. 

By  way  of  recreation  from  work  George  Alexander 


SUPPER   ON   THE   STAGE  135 

rushes  off  to  his  cottage  at  Chorley  Wood  to  play 
golf.  Sir  Charles  Wyndham  and  Sir  Squire  and 
Lady  Bancroft  for  many  years  enjoyed  rambles  in 
Switzerland.  Sir  Henry  Irving  is  a  tremendous  smoker 
and  never  happy  without  a  cigar.  Ellen  Terry  is  so 
devoted  to  her  son  and  daughter,  she  finds  recreation 
in  their  society.  Cyril  Maude  loves  shooting  and 
all  country  pursuits.  Winifred  Emery  never  mentions 
the  theatre  after  she  leaves  the  stage  door,  and  finds 
relaxation  in  domesticity.  Mrs.  Kendal  knits.  Lewis 
Waller  motors.  Dan  Leno  retires  to  the  suburbs 
to  look  after  his  ducks.  Arthur  Bourchier  is  fond 
of  golfing  whenever  he  gets  a  chance.  Miss  Marie 
Tempest  lives  in  a  musical  set,  and  is  as  devoted  to 
her  friends   as  they  are  to  her. 

The  world  is  governed  by  fads.  Fads  are  an 
antidote  to  boredom — a  tonic  to  the  overworked,  and 
actors  enjoy  fads  like  the  rest  of  us  ;  for  instance  : 

Eugene  Oudin,  that  most  delightful  operatic  singer, 
who  was  cut  off  just  as  he  stepped  on  the  top  rung 
of  Fame's  ladder,  was  a  splendid  photographer.  In 
1890  photography  was  not  so  much  the  fashion  as 
it  is  nowadays,  but  even  then  his  pictures  were  works 
of  art.  He  portrayed  his  contemporaries — the  De 
Reskes,  Van  Dyck,  Calve,  Hans  Richter,  Mascagni, 
Joachim,  Tosti,  Alma-Tadema,  John  Drew,  Melba, 
and  dozens  more  at  their  work,  or  in  some  way  that 
would  make  a  picture  as  well  as  a  photograph.  Then 
these  worthies  signed  the  copies,  which  were  subse- 
quently hung  round  the  walls  of  Oudin's  private 
study. 


136  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Miss  Julia  Neilson  has  a  passion  for  collecting  fans. 
Herbert  Waring  is  a  brilliant  whist-player.  Mrs, 
Patrick  Campbell  adores  small  dogs,  and  nearly  always 
has  one  tucked  under  her  arm.  Many  actresses  have 
particular  mascots.  Miss  Ellen  Terry,  Miss  Lily 
Hanbury,  and  a  host  more  have  their  lucky  ornaments 
which  they  wear  on  first  nights.  Miss  Irene  Vanbrugh 
is  devoted  to  turquoises,  and  has  a  necklace  com- 
posed of  curious  specimens  of  these  stones,  presents 
from  her  many  friends. 

Miss  Violet  Vanbrugh  declares  she  is  "  one  of 
those  people  who  somehow  never  contrive  actively 
or  passively  to  be  the  heroine  of  any  little  stage 
joke."  This  is  rather  an  amusing  assertion  for  a 
lady  who  is  continually  playing  stage  heroines.  Her 
husband,  Mr.  Arthur  Bourchier,  however,  tells  a  good 
story  against  himself. 

"  My  present  servant,  or  '  dresser,'  as  they  are 
called  at  the  theatre,  was  one  of  the  original  Gallery 
First  Nighters  and  a  member  of  the  celebrated  Gaiety 
Gallery  Boys.  Of  course  when  he  joined  me  I 
imagined  he  had  forsaken  the  auditorium  for  the 
stage.  One  night,  however,  a  play  was  produced  by 
me,  the  dress  rehearsal  of  which  he  had  seen,  and 
I  noticed  that  he  seemed  particularly  gloomy  and 
morose  at  its  conclusion.  On  the  first  night,  when 
I  came  back  to  my  dressing-room  from  the  stage,  I 
found  the  door  locked.  Here  was  a  pretty  predica- 
ment. It  was  clear  that  he  had  got  the  key  and  had 
mysteriously  disappeared.  I  had  the  door  broken 
open,  for  dress  I   must  as  time  was  pressing,  and  sent 


SUPPER   ON   THE   STAGE  137 

another  man  to  search  for  my  missing  servant.  The 
sequel  is  as  follows.  He  was  caught  red-handed  in 
the  gallery  among  his  old  associates  loudly  '  booing  ' 
his  master.  Arraigned  before  me,  he  maintained  the 
firmest  attitude  possible,  and  asserted  boldly  : 

'* '  No,  sir,  I  am  your  faithful  servant  behind  the 
scenes,  but  as  an  independent  man  and  honest  gallery 
boy  I  am  bound  to  express  my  unbiassed  opinion  either 
for  or  against  any  play  which  I  may  happen  to  see 
at  a  first  night  !  '  " 

Mr.  Hare,  like  most  men,  has  his  hobby,  and  it  is 
racing  :  he  loves  a  horse,  and  he  loves  a  race  meeting. 
In  fact,  on  one  occasion  report  says  he  nearly  missed 
appearing  at  the  theatre  in  consequence. 

John  Hare  is  one  of  the  greatest  character-actors 
of  our  day.  He  is  a  dapper  little  gentleman,  and 
lives  in  Upper  Berkeley  Street,  near  Portman  Square. 
His  house  is  most  tasteful,  and  while  his  handsome 
wife  has  had  much  to  say  to  the  decoration,  the 
actor-manager  has  decided  views  of  his  own  in  these 
matters.  He  has  a  delightful  study  at  the  back  of 
the  house,  round  the  sides  of  which  low  book-cases 
run,  while  the  walls  reflect  copper  and  brass  pots, 
and  old  blue  china.  It  is  here  he  is  at  his  best,  as 
he  sits  smoking  a  cigarette,  perched  on  the  high  seat 
in  front  of  the  fire. 

What  an  expressive  face  his  is.  The  fine-chiselled 
features,  the  long  thin  lips  are  like  a  Catholic  priest 
of  aesthetic  tendency  ;  but  as  the  expression  changes 
with  lightning  speed,  and  the  dark  deep-set  eyes 
sparkle  or  sadden,  one  realises  the  actor-spirit. 


138  BEHIND    THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Evidence  of  fads  may  often  be  seen  in  an  actor's 
dressing-room,  where  the  walls  are  decorated  according 
to  the  particular  taste  of  its  occupant. 

Cyril  Maude  has  a  particularly  interesting  dressing- 
room  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre.  It  is  veritably 
a  studio,  for  he  has  persuaded  his  artistic  friends 
to  do  sketches  for  him  on  the  distempered  walls, 
and  a  unique  little  collection  they  make.  Phil  May, 
Harry  Furniss,  Dudley  Hardy,  Holman  Clarke, 
Bernard  Partridge,  Raven  Hill,  Tom  Brown,  are 
among  the  contributors,  and  Leslie  Ward's  portrait 
of  Lord  Salisbury  is  one  of  the  finest  ever  sketched 
of  the  late  Prime  Minister.  It  is  a  quaint  and  original 
idea  of  Mr.  Maude's,  but  unfortunately  those  walls 
are  so  precious  he  will  never  dare  to  disturb  the 
grime  of  ages  and  have  them  cleaned. 

The  St.  James's  Theatre,  as  it  stands,  is  very 
modern,  and  therefore  Mr.  Alexander  is  the  proud 
possessor  of  a  charming  sitting-room  with  a  little 
dressing-room  attached.  It  is  quite  near  the  stage, 
and  has  first-floor  windows  which  look  out  on  King 
Street,  next  door  to  Willis's  Rooms,  once  so  famous 
for  their  dinners,  and  still  more  famous  at  an  earlier 
date  as  Almack's,  where  the  heaux  and  helles  of  former 
days  disported  themselves. 

Both  Mr.  Alexander  and  his  wife  are  fond  of 
artistic  surroundings,  and  his  little  room  at  the  theatre 
is  therefore  charming.  Here  on  matinee  days  the 
actor-manager  dines,  an  arrangement  which  saves  him 
much  time  and  trouble,  and  his  huge  dog  Boris — 
the    famous    boarhound    which     appeared    in     Rupert 


SUPPER   ON   THE  STAGE  139 

of  Hentzau — is  his  companion,  unless  Mrs.  Alexander 
pops  in  with  some  little  delicacy  to  cheer  him  over 
his  solitary  meal. 

That  is  one  of  the  drawbacks  of  the  stage,  the 
poor  actor  generally  has  to  eat  alone.  He  cannot 
expect  ordinary  mortals  to  dine  at  his  hours,  and 
he  cannot  accommodate  himself  to  theirs.  The  artist 
who  appears  much  in  public  is  forced  to  live  much 
by  himself,  and  his  meals  are  consequently  as  lonely 
as  those  of  a  great  Indian  potentate. 

If  we  are  to  follow  Mr.  Pinero's  advice  we  shall 
all  have  to  eschew  dinner  and  adopt  a  '*  high-tea " 
principle  before  the  play  ;  but  as  all  the  audience 
are  not  agreed  upon  the  subject  there  seems  to  be 
some  difficulty   about  it. 

Why  not  have  the  evening  performance  as  late  as 
usual  on  matinee  days,  to  allow  the  players  time  to  take 
food  and  rest,  and  early  on  other  days  to  suit  those 
folk  who  prefer  the  drama  from  seven  to  ten  instead  of 
nine  to  twelve  }  By  this  means  early  comers  and  late 
diners  would  both  be  satisfied.  Instead  of  which,  as 
matters  stand  in  London,  the  late  diners  arrive  gorged 
and  grumbling  half  through  the  first  act  to  disturb  every 
one,  and  the  'bus  and  train  folk  struggle  out  halfway 
through  the  last  act,  sad  and  annoyed  at  having  to  leave. 

Most  theatrical  folk  dine  at  five  o'clock.  Allowing 
an  hour  for  this  meal,  they  are  able  to  get  a  little 
rest  before  starting  for  the  theatre,  which  generally 
has  to  be  reached  by  seven. 

Preparing  for  the  stage  is  a  serious  matter.  All 
that   can  be  put  on  beforehand   is  of  course  donned. 


I40  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

Ladies  have  been  known  to  wear  three  pairs  of 
stockings,  so  that  a  pair  might  be  taken  off  quickly 
between  each  act.  Then  a  long  time  is  required  to 
'*  make  up."  For  instance  in  such  a  part  as  Giovanni 
Malatesta  (Paolo  and  Francesca),  Mr.  Alexander  spent 
an  hour  each  day  painting  his  face  and  arranging 
his  wig.  He  did  not  look  pretty  from  the  front, 
but  the  saffron  of  his  complexion  and  the  blue  of 
his  eyes  became  absolutely  hideous  when  beheld  close 
at  hand.  That  make-up,  however,  was  really  a  work 
of  art. 

An  actor's  day,  even  in  London,  is  often  a  heavy 
one.  Breakfast  between  nine  and  ten  is  the  rule, 
then  a  ride  or  some  form  of  exercise,  and  the  theatre 
at  eleven  or  twelve  for  a  "  call,"  namely,  a  rehearsal. 
This  "  call  "  may  go  on  till  two  o'clock  or  later,  at 
which  hour  light  luncheon  is  allowed  ;  but  if  the 
rehearsal  be  late,  and  the  meal  consequently  delayed,  it 
is  impossible  to  eat  again  between  five  and  six,  con- 
sequently the  two  meals  get  merged  into  one.  Re- 
hearsals for  a  new  play  frequently  last  a  whole  month, 
and  during  that  month  the  players  perform  eight 
times  a  week  in  the  old  piece,  and  rehearse,  or  have 
to  attend  the  theatre  nearly  all  day  as  well.  Three 
months  is  considered  a  good  run  for  a  play — so,  as 
will  be  seen,  the  company  scarcely  recover  from  the 
exertions  of  one  play  before  they  have  to  commence 
rehearsing  for  another,  to  say  nothing  of  the  ever- 
lasting rehearsals  for  charity  performances.  The 
actor's  life  is  necessarily  one  of  routine,  and  routine 
tends  to   become   monotonous. 


SUPPER   ON   THE   STAGE  141 

A  well-known  actor  was  a  very  absent-minded  man 
except  about  his  profession,  where  habit  had  drilled 
him  to  punctuality.  One  Sunday  he  was  sitting  in 
the  Garrick  Club  when  a  friend  remarked  he  was 
dining  at  A . 

"God  bless  me,   so  am   I." 

He  rushed  home,  dressed,  and  went  off"  to  the 
dinner,  during  the  course  of  which  his  neighbour 
asked  him  if  he  were  going  to  the  B.'s. 

"  I'd  really  forgotten  it — but  if  you  are  going  I'll 
go  too." 

So  he  went. 

About  midnight  he  got  home.  His  wife  was 
sitting  in  full  evening  dress  with  her  gloves  and 
cloak  on. 

*'  You  are  very  late,"  she  said. 

*'  Late  ^  I  thought  it  was  early.  It  is  only  a  quarter 
past  twelve." 

*' I've  been   waiting  for   nearly  two  hours." 

"  Waiting— what  for  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  arranged  to  fetch  me  a  little  after 
ten  o'clock   to  go  to   the  B's." 

"  God  bless  me — I  forgot  I  had  a  dinner-party, 
forgot  there  was  a  soiree,  and  forgot  I  had  a  wife." 

'*And  where's  your  white  tie?"  asked  his  wife 
stiffly. 

"  Oh  dear,  I  must  have  forgotten  that  too  !  Dear, 
dear,  what  a  man  I  am  away  from  the  stage  and  my 
dresser  ! " 

There  is  a  wonderful  hnne  camaraderie  among  all 
people   engaged  in  the  theatrical   profession. 


142  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Theatrical  people  are  as  generous  to  one  another 
in  misfortune  as  the  poor.  In  times  of  success  they 
are  apt  to  be  jealous  ;  but  let  a  comrade  fall  on  evil 
days,  let  him  be  forced  to  "  rest "  when  he  wants  to 
work,  and  his  old  colleagues  will  try  and  procure  him 
employment,  and  when  work  and  health  fail  utterly, 
they  get  up  a  benefit  for  him.  These  benefits  take 
much  organising  ;  they  often  entail  endless  rehearsals 
and  some  expense,  and  yet  the  profession  is  ever 
ready   to  come  forward   and   help    those   in   need. 

People  on  the  stage  have  warm  hearts  and  generous 
purses,  but  to  give  gracefully  requires  as  much  tact 
as  to  receive  graciously. 

It  is  a  curious  thing  how  few  actors  have  died 
rich  men.  Many  have  made  fortunes,  but  they  have 
generally  contrived  to  lose  them  again.  Money  easily 
made  is  readily  lost.  He  who  buys  what  he  does  not 
want  ends  in  wanting  what  he  cannot  buy.  Style 
and  show  begun  in  flourishing  times  are  hard  to 
relinquish.  Capital  soon  runs  away  when  drawn  upon 
because  salary  has  ceased,  even  temporarily.  Many 
an  actor,  once  a  rich  man,  has  died  poor.  Kate 
Vaughan,  once  a  wealthy  woman,  died  in  penury, 
and  so  on  ad  infinitum. 

Actors,  like  other  people,  have  to  learn  there  is  no 
disgrace  in  being  poor — it  is  merely  inconvenient. 

Theatrical  salaries  are  sometimes  enormous,  although 
George  Edwardes  has  informed  the  public  that  ;^ioo 
a  week  is  the  highest  he  ever  gives,  because  he  finds 
to  go  beyond  that  sum  does  not  pay  him. 

It  seems  a  great  deal  for  a  pretty  v/oman,  not  highly 


SUPPER   ON   THE   STAGE  143 

born,  nor  highly  educated,  nor  highly  gifted — merely 
a  pretty  woman  who  has  been  well  drilled  by  author, 
stage  manager,  and  conductor,  to  be  able  to  command 
^100  a  week  in  a  comic  opera,  but  after  all  it  is  not 
for  long.  It  is  never  for  fifty-two  weeks  in  the  year, 
and  only  for  a  few  years  at  most.  Beauty  fades,  flesh 
increases,  the  attraction  goes,  and  she  is  relegated  to 
the  shelf,  a  poorer,  wiser  woman  than  before.  But 
meanwhile  her  scintillating  success,  the  glamour  around 
her,  have  acted  as  a  bait  to  induce  others  to  rush 
upon  the  stage. 

The  largest  salary  ever  earned  by  a  man  was  prob- 
ably that  paid  to  Charles  Kean,  who  once  had  a  short 
engagement  at  Drury  Lane  for  ^50  a  night,  and  on 
one  occasion  he  made  ^2,000  by  a  benefit.  Madame 
Vestris,  however,  beat  him,  for  she  had  a  long 
engagement  at  the  Haymarket  at  ^40  a  night,  or 
;^240  a  week,  a  sum  unheard  of  to-day. 

It  may  be  here  mentioned  that  salaries  are  doled 
out  according  to  an  old  and  curious  custom. 

"  Treasury  day  "  is  a  great  event  ;  theatrical  folk 
never  speak  of  "  pay  "  :  it  is  always  *'  salaries  "  and 
"treasury  day."  Each  "house"  has  its  own  methods 
of  procedure,  but  at  a  great  national  theatre  like  Drury 
Lane  the  "chiefs"  are  paid  by  cheque,  while  every 
Friday  night  the  treasurer  and  his  assistants  with 
trays  full  of  "  salary "  go  round  the  theatre  and 
distribute  packets  in  batches  to  the  endless  persons  who 
combine  to  make  a  successful  performance.  The 
money  is  sealed  up  in  an  envelope  which  bears  the 
name    of   the    receiver,    so    no    one    knows    what    his 


144  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

neighbour  gets.  It  takes  five  or  six  hours  for  the 
treasurer  and  his  two  assistants  to  pay  off  a  thousand 
people  at  a  pantomime,  and  check  each  salary  paid. 

There  is  no  field  where  that  little  colt  imagination 
scampers  more  wildly  than  in  the  matter  of  salaries. 
For  instance,  a  girl  started  as  *'  leading  lady "  in  a 
well-known  play  on  a  provincial  tour.  Her  name, 
in  letters  nearly  as  big  as  herself,  met  her  on  the 
hoardings  of  every  town  the  company  visited.  She 
was  given  the  star  dressing-room,  and  a  dresser  to 
herself.  This  all  meant  extra  tips  and  extra  expenses 
everywhere,  for  she  was  the  "leading  lady"!  Won- 
derful notices  appeared  in  all  the  provincial  papers 
and  this  girl  was  the  draw.  The  manager  knew  that, 
and  advertised  her  and  pushed  her  forward  in  every 
way.  All  the  company  thought  she  began  at  a 
salary  of  ;^io  a  week,  and  rumour  said  this  sum  had 
been  doubled  after  her  success.  Such  was  the  story. 
Now  for  the  truth.  She  was  engaged  for  the  tour 
at  £^  a  week,  and  £2  a  week  she  received  without 
an  additional  penny,  although  the  tour  of  weeks  ex- 
tended into  months.  She  was  poor,  others  were 
dependent  on  her,  and  she  dared  not  throw  up  that 
weekly  sixty  shillings  for  fear  she  might  lose  everything 
in  her  endeavour  to  get  more. 

This  is  only  one  instance  :  there  are  many  such 
upon  the  stage. 

"  I  suppose  A has  given  more  time  to  rehearsals 

this  year,"  said  the  wife  of  a  well-known  actor,  "  than 
any  man  in  London,  and  yet  he  has  only  drawn  ten 
weeks'    salary.       Everything    has    turned    out    badly  ; 


SUPPER   ON   THE   STAGE 


H5 


so  we   have   had   to  live  for   fifty-two  weeks  on    ten 
weeks'  pay  and  thirty-four  weeks'  work." 

Large  sums  and  well-earned  salaries  have,  of  course, 
been  made — in  fact,  Sir  Henry  Irving  was  earning 
about  ^30,000  a  year  at  the  beginning  of  the  century, 
an  income  very  few  actor-managers  could    boast. 

Among  thrifty  theatrical  folk  the  Bancrofts  probably 
take  front  rank.  Marie  Wilton  and  her  husband 
amused  England  for  thirty  years,  and  had  the  good 
sense  always  to  spend  less  than  they  made.  The  result 
was  that,  while  still  young  enough  to  enjoy  their 
savings  they  bought  a  house  in  Berkeley  Square, 
retired,  and  have  enjoyed  a  well-earned  rest.  More 
than  that,  Sir  Squire  Bancroft  stands  unique  as  regards 
charities.  Although  not  wishing  to  be  tied  any  more 
to  the  stage,  he  does  not  mind  giving  an  occasional 
"  Reading "  of  Dickens's  Christmas  Carol^  and  he 
has  elected  to  give  his  earnings  to  hospitals  and  other 
charities,  which  are  over  ^^  15,000  the  richer  for  his 
generosity.  Could  anything  be  more  delightful  than 
for  a  retired  actor  to  give  his  talent  for  the  public 
good  .'' 

I  was  brought  up  on  Mrs.  Bancroft  and  Shakespeare, 
so  to  speak.  The  Bancrofts  at  that  time  had  the 
Haymarket  Theatre,  and  their  Robertson  pieces  were 
considered  suitable  to  my  early  teens  by  way  of 
amusement,  while  I  was  taken  to  Shakespeare's  plays 
by  way  of  instruction.  I  remember  I  thought  the 
Robertson  comedies  far  preferable,  and  should  love 
to  see  them  again. 

It  is    always    averred    by  old   playgoers  that   Marie 

10 


146  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Wilton  (Lady  Bancroft)  was  the  originator  of  modern 
comedy.  She  and  her  husband  at  one  time  had  a  little 
play-house  in  an  unfashionable  part  of  London,  to 
which  they  attracted  society  people  of  that  day.  The 
theatre  was  not  then  what  it  is  now,  the  "  upper  ten  " 
seldom  visited  the  play  at  that  time,  and  yet  the  Prince 
of  Wales'  Theatre  known  as  "  The  Dust-hole  "  drew 
all  fashionable  London  to  the  Tottenham  Court  Road 
to  laugh  with  Marie  Wilton  over  Robertson's  comedies. 

Her  company  consisted  of  men  and  women  who  are 
actor-managers  to-day  :  people  went  forth  well  drilled 
in  their  profession,  accustomed  to  expending  minute 
care  over  details,  each  in  their  turn  to  inculcate  the 
same  thoroughness  in  the  next  generation.  These 
people  numbered  John  Hare,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kendal 
(Madge  Robertson  was  the  younger  sister  of  the 
dramatist),  H.  J.  Montague,  and  Arthur  Cecil.  Again 
one  finds  the  best  succeeds,  and  there  is  always  room 
at  the  top,  hence  the  Bancroft  triumph. 

One  of  their  innovations  was  to  rope  off  the 
front  rows  of  the  pit,  which  then  occupied  the  entire 
floor  of  the  house,  and  call  them  "  stalls,"  for 
which  they  dared  ask  6/-  apiece.  They  got  it — 
more  were  wanted.  Others  were  added,  and  gradu- 
ally the  price  rose  to  10/6,  which  is  now  the  charge  : 
but  half-guinea  stalls,  though  now  universal,  are  a 
modern  institution. 

At  a  dinner  given  by  the  Anderson  Critchetts  in 
I  891  I  sat  between  Squire  Bancroft  and  G.  Boughton, 
R.A.  Mr.  Bancroft  remarked  in  the  course  of 
conversation  that  he  was  just  fifty,  though  he  looked 


SUPPER   ON   THE   STAGE  147 

much  younger.  His  tall  figure  was  perfectly  erect, 
and  his  white  hair  showed  up  the  freshness  of  his 
complexion.  I  asked  him  if  he  did  not  miss  acting, 
the  applause,  and  the  excitement  of  the  theatre. 

"  No,"  he  replied.  "  It  will  be  thirty  years  this 
September  since  I  first  went  on  the  stage,  and  it 
is  now  nearly  six  since  I  gave  it  up.  No,  I  don't 
think  I  should  mind  much  if  I  never  entered  a 
theatre  again,  either  as  spectator  or  actor — and  my 
wife  feels  the  same.  My  only  regret  about  our 
theatrical  career  is  that  we  never  visited  America, 
but  no  dollars  would  induce  Mrs.  Bancroft  to  cross 
the  sea,  so  we  never  went." 

He  surprised  me  by  saying  that  during  the  latter 
years  of  their  theatrical  life  they  never  took  supper, 
but  dined  at  6.0  or  6.30  as  occasion  required,  and 
afterwards  usually  walked  to  the  theatre.  During 
the  performance  they  had  coffee  and  biscuits,  or  some- 
times, on  cold  nights,  a  little  soup,  and  the  moment 
the  curtain  was  down  they  jumped  into  their  carriage, 
and  were  in  their  own  house  in  Cavendish  Square, 
where  they  then  lived,  by  11.30,  and  in  bed  a  few 
minutes  later.  They  were  always  down  to  breakfast 
at  9  o'clock  year  in  year  out  ;  an  early  hour  for 
theatrical  folk. 

I  spoke  of  the  autograph  photographs  which  I  had 
seen  in  the  Haymarket  green-room. 

"  How  curious,"  he  said,  "  that  you  should  mention 
them  to-night.  We  have  always  intended  to  take 
them  away,  and  only  yesterday,  after  an  interval  of 
six  years,  I  gave  the  order  for   their  removal.      This 


148  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

evening  as  we  started  for  dinner  they  arrived  in 
Berkeley  Square.     A  strange  coincidence." 

Lady  Bancroft  has  the  merriest  laugh  imaginable. 
I  used  to  love  to  see  her  act  when  I  was  quite  a  girl, 
and  somehow  Miss  Marie  Tempest  reminds  me  strongly 
of  her  to-day.     She  has  the  same  lively  manner. 

Lady  Bancroft's  eyes  are  her  great  feature — they 
are  deeply  set,  with  long  dark  lashes,  and  their  merry 
twinkle  is  infectious.  When  she  laughs  her  eyes  seem 
to  disappear  in  one  glorious  smile,  and  every  one 
near  her  joins  in  her  mirth.  Mrs.  Bancroft  was 
comparatively  a  young  woman  when  she  retired  from 
the  stage,  and  one  of  her  greatest  joys  at  the  time 
was  to  feel  she  was  no  longer  obliged  to  don  the 
same  gown  at  the  same  moment  every  day. 

At  some  theatres  a  dress  rehearsal  is  a  great 
affair.  The  term  properly  speaking  means  the  whole 
performance  given  privately  right  through,  without 
even  a  repeated  scene.  The  final  dress  rehearsal,  as 
a  rule,  is  played  before  a  small  critical  audience,  and 
the  piece  is  expected  to  run  as  smoothly  as  on  the 
first  night  itself — to  be,  in  fact,  a  sort  of  prologue  to 
the  first  night.  This  is  a  dress  rehearsal  proper,  such 
as  is  given  by  Sir  Henry  Irving,  Messrs.  Beerbohm 
Tree,  Cyril  Maude,  George  Alexander,  or  the  old 
Savoy  Company. 

Before  this,  however,  there  are  endless  "  lighting 
rehearsals,"  "  scenic  rehearsals,"  or  "  costume  parades," 
all  of  which  are  done  separately,  and  with  the  greatest 
care.  As  we  saw  before,  Mrs.  Kendal  disapproves  of  a 
dress  rehearsal,  but  she  is  almost  alone  in  her  opinion. 


SUPPER   ON   THE   STAGE  149 

It  is  really,  therefore,  a  matter  of  taste  whether  the 
whole  performance  be  gone  through  hi  separate 
portions  or  whether  one  final  effort  be  made  before 
the  actual  first  night.  As  a  rule  Sir  Henry  Irving 
has  three  dress  rehearsals,  but  the  principals  only 
appear  in  costume  at  one  of  them.  They  took  nine 
weeks  to  rehearse  the  operetta  The  Medal  and  the 
Maid^  yet  Irving  put  The  Merchant  of  Venice  with 
all  its  details  on  the  Lyceum  stage  in  twenty-three 
days. 

Sir  Henry  strongly  objects  to  the  public  being 
present  at  any  rehearsal.  "  The  impression  given  of 
an  incomplete  effort  cannot  be  a  fair  one,"  he  says. 
"  It  is  not  fair  to  the  artistes.  A  play  to  be  complete 
must  pass  through  one  imagination,  one  intellect  must 
organise  and  control.  In  order  to  attain  this  end 
it  is  necessary  to  experiment  :  no  one  likes  to  be 
corrected  before  strangers,  therefore  rehearsals — or 
in  other  words  '  experiments  ' — should  be  made  in 
private.  Even  trained  intellect  in  an  outsider  should 
not  be  admitted,  as  great  work  may  be  temporarily 
spoiled  by  some  slight  mechanical  defect." 

In  Paris  rehearsals  used  to  be  great  institutions. 
They  were  opportunities  for  meeting  friends.  In- the 
foyers  and  green-rooms  of  the  theatres,  at  repetitions 
generaleSy  every  one  talked  and  chatted  over  the  play, 
the  actors,  and  the  probable  success  or  failure.  This, 
however,  gradually  became  a  nuisance,  and  early  in 
this  twentieth  century  both  actors  and  authors  struck. 
They  decided  that  even  privileged  persons  should  be 
excluded  from    final    rehearsals,   which    are   always   in 


ISO  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

costume  in  Paris.  As  a  sort  of  salve  to  the  offended 
public,  it  was  agreed  that  twenty-four  strangers  should 
be  admitted  to  the  last  great  dress  rehearsal  before  the 
actual  production  of  a  new  piece,  hence  everybody  who 
is  anybody  clamours  to  be  there. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MADAME  SARAH  BERNHARDT 

Sarah  Bernhardt  and  her  Tomb — The  Actress's  Holiday — Love  of 
her  Son — Sarah  Bernhardt  Shrimping — Why  she  left  the  Com6die 
Fran^aise — Life  in  Paris — A  French  Claque — Three  Ominous 
Raps — Strike  of  the  Orchestra — Parisian  Theatre  Customs — 
Programmes — Late  Comers — The  Matinee  Hat — Advertisement 
Drop  Scene — First  Night  of  Hamlet — Madame  Bernhardt's  own 
Reading  of  Hamlet — Yorick's  Skull — Dr.  Horace  Howard  Furness 
— A  Great  Shakespearian  Library. 

IT  is  not  every  one  who  cares  to  erect  his  own 
mausoleum  during  his  life. 
There  are  some  quaint  and  weird  people  who  prefer 
to  do  so,  however  :  whether  it  is  to  save  their  friends 
and  relations  trouble  after  their  demise,  whether  from 
some  morbid  desire  to  face  death,  or  whether  for 
notoriety,  who  can  tell  ?  Was  it  not  one  of  our 
dukes  who  built  a  charming  crematorium  for  the 
benefit  of  the  public,  and  beside  it  one  for  himself, 
the  latter  to  be  given  over  to  general  use  after  he 
himself  had  been  reduced  to  spotless  ashes  within  its 
walls  ?  He  was  a  public  benefactor,  for  his  wise 
action  encouraged  cremation,  a  system  which  for  the 
sake  of  health  and  prosperity  is  sure  to  come  in 
time. 


152  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Madame  Sarah  Bernhardt  has  not  erected  a 
crematorium,  but  on  one  of  the  highest  spots  of  the 
famous  Pere  Lachaise  Cemetery  in  Paris  she  has 
placed  her  tomb.  It  is  a  solid  stone  structure,  like  a 
large  sarcophagus,  but  it  is  supported  on  four  arches, 
so  that  light  may  be  seen  beneath,  and  the  solidity  of 
the  slabs  is  thereby  somewhat  lessened.  One  word 
only  is  engraven  on  the  stone  : 

BERNHARDT. 

This  is  the  mausoleum  of  one  of  the  greatest 
actresses  the  world  has  ever  known.  What  is  lacking 
in  the  length  of  inscription  is  made  up  by  the  size  of 
the  lettering. 

Upon  the  tomb  lay  one  enormous  wreath  on  the 
Jour  des  Morts^  1902,  and  innumerable  people  paid 
homage  to  it,  or  stared  out  of  curiosity  at  the  hand- 
some erection. 

Though  folk  say  Madame  Bernhardt  courts 
notoriety,  there  are  moments  when  she  seeks  solitude 
as  a  recreation,  and  she  has  a  great  love  of  the  sea. 

Every  year  for  two  months  she  disappears  from 
theatrical  life.  She  forgets  that  such  a  thing  as  the  stage 
exists,  she  never  reads  a  play,  and  as  far  as  theatrical 
matters  are  concerned  she  lives  in  another  sphere. 
That  is  part  of  her  hoHday.  It  is  not  a  holiday  of 
rest,  for  she  never  rests  ;  it  is  a  holiday  because  of  the 
change  of  scene,  change  of  thought,  change  of  occupa- 
tion. Her  day  at  her  seaside  home  is  really  a  very 
energetic  one. 

At  five  the    great  artiste  rises,   dons  a  short  skirt, 


Photo  by  Lafayette.  Nei^'  I'.nn,!  >//,  ,i. 

MADAME   SARAH    liERNIIARDT   AS    HAMLET. 


MADAME   SARAH    BERNHARDT       153 

country  boots,  and  prepares  to  enjoy  herself.  Often 
the  early  hours  are  spent  in  shooting  small  birds. 
She  rarely  misses  her  quarry,  for  her  artistic  eye  helps 
her  in  measuring  distance,  and  her  aim  is  generally 
deadly.  Another  favourite  entertainment  is  to 
shrimp.  She  takes  off  her  shoes  and  stockings  and 
for  a  couple  of  hours  will  stand  in  the  water  shrimp- 
ing, for  her  "resting"  is  as  energetic  as  everything 
else  she  does.  She  plies  her  net  in  truly  professional 
style,  gets  wildly  enthusiastic  over  a  good  catch,  and 
loves  to  eat  her  freshly  boiled  fish  at  dejeuner.  Perhaps 
she  has  a  game  with  her  ten  lovely  Russian  dogs 
before  that  mid-day  meal. 

Her  surroundings  are  beautiful.  She  adores  flowers 
— flowers  are  everywhere  ;  she  admires  works  of  art — 
works  of  art  are  about  her,  for  she  has  achieved  her 
own  position,  her  own  wealth,  and  why  should  she  not 
have  all  she  loves  best  close  at  hand  } 

After  dejeuner  the  guests,  of  whom  there  are  never 
more  than  two  or  three,  such  as  M.  Rostand  (author 
of  Cyrano  de  Bergerac)  and  his  wife,  rest  and  read.  Not 
so  Madame  Bernhardt.  She  sits  in  the  open  air, 
her  head  covered  with  a  shady  hat,  and  plays  Salta 
with  her  son.  This  game  is  a  kind  of  draughts, 
and  often  during  their  two  months'  holiday-making 
she  and  her  only  child  Maurice  will  amuse  themselves 
in  this  way  for  two  or  three  hours  in  the  afternoon  ; 
generally  she  wins,  much  to  her  joy.  She  simply 
loves  heat,  like  the  Salamanders,  and,  even  in  July, 
when  other  people  feel  too  hot,  she  would  gladly 
wear   furs    and    have    a  fire.      She    can   never    be    too 


154  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

warm  apparently.  Her  own  rooms  are  kept  like 
a  hothouse,  for  cold  paralyses  her  bodily  and  mentally. 

How  she  adores  her  son — she  speaks  of  him  as 
a  woman  speaks  of  her  lover  ;  Maurice  comes  before 
all  her  art,  before  all  else  in  the  world,  for  Maurice 
to  her  is  life.  He  has  married  a  clever  woman,  a 
descendant  of  a  Royal  house,  and  has  a  boy  and 
two  girls  adored  by  their  grandmother  almost  as 
much  as  their  father.  She  plays  with  them,  gets  up 
games  for  them,  dances  with  them,  throws  herself 
as  completely  into  their  young  lives  as  she  does 
into  everything  else. 

About  3.30  au  tennis  is  the  cry.  Salta  is  put 
aside  and  every  one  has  to  play  tennis.  Away  to 
tennis  she  trips.  Sarah  never  gets  hot,  but  always 
looks  cool  in  the  white  she  invariably  wears.  She 
wants  an  active  life,  and  if  her  brain  is  not  working 
her  body  must  be,  so  she  plays  hard  at  the  game, 
and  when  tea  is  ready  in  the  arbour  close  at  hand, 
about  6,30,  she  almost  weeps  if  she  has  to  leave  an 
unfinished   "  sett." 

She  must  be  interested,  or  she  would  be  bored  ; 
she  must  be  amused,  or  she  would  be  weary  ;  thus  she 
works  hard  at  her  recreations,  the  enforced  rest  while 
reading  a  novel  being  her  only  time  of  repose  during 
her  summer  holiday.  She  walks  when  she  has  nothing 
else  to  do,  and  rambles  for  miles  around  her  seaside 
home,  only  occasionally  going  on  long  carriage  ex- 
peditions, with  her  tents  and  her  servants,  to  pitch 
camp  for  the  night  somewhere  along  the  coast. 

Then    comes    dinner — dinner    served    with    all    the 


MADAME   SARAH  BERNHARDT      155 

glories  of  a  Parisian  chef^  for  Madame,  although  a  small 
eater,  believes  well-cooked  food  necessary  to  existence. 
There  is  no  hurry  over  dinner,  and  "  guess "  games 
are  all  the  fashion,  games  which  she  cleverly  arranges 
to  suit  the  children.  No  evening  dresses  are  allowed, 
nor  dkollete  frocks  ;  except  for  flowers  and  well- 
cooked  food,  Madame  likes  to  feel  she  is  in  the  country 
and  far  removed  from  Paris,  therefore  a  dainty  blouse 
is  all  that  is  permitted.  Music  is  often  enjoyed  in 
the  evening.  Sometimes  on  a  fine  night  Madame  will 
exclaim  : 

"Let  us  go  and  fish,"  and  ofi^  they  all  go.  Down 
the  endless  steps  cut  in  the  rock  the  party  stumble, 
and  on  the  seashore  they  drag  their  nets.  Up  those 
same  steps  every  night  toil  men  with  buckets  of  salt 
water,  for  the  great  actress  has  a  boiling  salt  water 
bath  every  morning,  to  which  she  attributes  much 
of  her  good  health.  Fishermen  throw  nets  for  the 
evening's  catch,  but  "  Sarah "  is  most  energetic  in 
hauling  them  in,  and  gets  wildly  excited  at  a  good 
haul.  Her  unfailing  energy  is  thrown  even  into 
the  fishing,  and  she  will  stay  out  till  the  small  hours 
enjoying  the  sport.  One  summer  Madame  Bernhardt 
caught  a  devil  fish — this  delighted  her.  She  took  it 
home  and  quickly  modelled  a  vase  from  her  treasure. 
Seaweed  and  shells  formed  its  stand,  the  tail  its  stem. 
She  seldom  sculpts  nowadays,  but  the  power  is  still  there. 

It  was  in  1880  that  she  retired  from  the  Comedie 
Fran^aise,  not  being  content  with  her  salary  of  ^1,200 
a  year,  and  she  then  announced  her  intention  of 
making  sculpture  and  painting  her   profession.     After 


156  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

a  rest,  however,  she  fortunately  changed  her  mind,  or 
the  stage  would  have  lost  one  of  the  greatest  actresses 
the  world  has  known.  Perhaps  the  apotheosis  of  her 
life  was  in  December,  1896,  when  she  was  acclaimed 
Queen  of  the  French  stage,  and  the  leading  poets 
of  her  country  recited  odes  in  her  honour.  On  that 
occasion  the  heroine   of  the  fete  declared  : 

"  For  twenty-nine  years  I  have  given  the  public 
the  vibrations  of  my  soul,  the  pulsations  of  my  heart, 
and  the  tears  of  my  eyes.  I  have  played  112 
parts,  I  have  created  thirty-eight  new  characters, 
sixteen  of  which  are  the  work  of  poets.  I  have 
struggled  as  no  other  human  being  has  struggled.  ...  I 
have  ardently  longed  to  climb  the  topmost  pinnacle 
of  my  art.  I  have  not  yet  reached  it.  By  far  the 
smaller  part  of  my  life  remains  for  me  to  live  ;  but 
what  matters  it  }  Every  day  brings  me  nearer  to 
the  realisation  of  my  dream.  The  hours  that  have 
flown  away  with  my  youth  have  left  me  my  courage 
and  cheerfulness,  for  my  goal  is  unchanged,  and  I 
am  marching  towards  it." 

She  was  right  ;  there  is  always  something  beyond 
our  grasp,  and  those  who  think  they  have  seized  it 
must  court  failure  from  that  moment.  Those  nearest 
perfection  best  know  how  far  they  really  are  from  it. 

Madame  Bernhardt's  mind  is  penetrating,  yet 
her  body  never  rests.  She  can  do  with  very  little 
sleep — can  Hve  without  butcher's  meat,  rarely  drinks 
alcohol,  and  prefers  milk  to  anything.  Perhaps  this 
is  the  reason  of  her  perpetual  youth.  She  loves 
her  holiday,  she  loves  the   simple  life  of  the  country, 


MADAME   SARAH    BERNHARDT      157 

the  repose  from  the  world,  the  knowledge  that 
autograph  hunters  and  reporters  cannot  waylay  her, 
and  in  the  country  she  ceases  to  be  an  actress  and  can 
enjoy  being  a  woman. 

In  Paris  her  life  is  very  different.  She  resides  in 
a  beautiful  hotel  surrounded  by  works  of  art,  and 
keeps  a  table  ouverte  for  her  friends.  She  rises  at 
eleven,  when  she  has  her  masseuse  and  her  boiling 
bath,  sees  her  servants,  and  gives  personal  orders  for 
everything  in  the  establishment.  She  is  one  of  those 
women  who  find  time  for  all  details,  and  is  capable 
of  seeing  to  most  matters  well.  At  12.30  is  dejeuner^ 
rarely  finished  till  2  o'clock,  as  friends  constantly  drop 
in.  Then  off  to  the  theatre,  where  she  rehearses  till 
six.  There  she  sits  in  a  little  box,  from  which  point 
of  vantage  she  can  see  everything  and  yet  be  out  of 
draughts.  She  always  wears  white,  even  in  the  theatre, 
and  looks  as  smart  as  though  at  a  party  instead  of  on 
business  bent.  Dresses  are  brought  ner  for  inspection, 
she  alters,  changes,  admires,  or  deplores  as  fancy  takes 
her  ;  she  arranges  the  lighting,  decides  a  little  more 
blue  or  a  little  less  green  will  give  the  tone  required  ; 
but  then  she  has  that  inner  knowledge  of  harmony 
and  the  true  painter  spirit.  She  is  never  out  of  tune. 
At  six  high-tea  is  served  in  her  dressing-room,  for 
she  rarely  leaves  the  theatre.  The  meal  consists 
mostly  of  fish — lobster,  crab,  cray-fish,  shrimps,  scallops 
cooked  or  raw — with  a  little  tea  and  lots  of  milk. 
A  chat  with  a  friend,  a  peep  at  a  new  play,  and  then 
it  is  time  to  dress  for  the  great  work  of  the  day. 
She  changes  quickly.     After  the  performance  is  over 


158  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

she  sees  her  manager,  and  rarely  leaves  the  theatre  in 
Paris  before  1.30,  when  she  returns  home  to  a  good  hot 
supper.  But  her  day  is  not  ended  even  then.  She 
will  have  a  play  read  to  her  or  read  it  herself,  study 
a  new  part,  write  letters,  and  do  dozens  of  different 
things  before  she  goes  to  bed.  She  can  do  with  little 
rest,  and  seems  to  have  the  energy  of  many  persons 
in  one.  In  spite  of  this  she  has  never  mastered 
English,  although  she  can   read  it. 

Madame  Bernhardt  will  ever  be  associated  in  my 
mind  with  a  night  spent  at  a  theatre  behind  a  French 
claque.  That  claque  was  terrible,  but  the  actress  was 
so  wonderful  I  almost  forgot  its  existence,  and  sat 
rapt  in  admiration  of  her  first  night  of  Hamlet. 

Till  quite  lately  there  was  a  terrible  institution  in 
France  known  as  the  claque^  nothing  more  or  less 
than  a  paid  body  of  men  whose  duty  it  was  to  applaud 
actors  and  actresses  at  certain  points  duly  marked  in 
their   play-books. 

At  the  Comedie  Fran^aise  of  Paris  a  certain  in- 
dividual known  as  the  Chef  de  Claque  had  been  retained 
from  1 881  for  over  twenty  years  at  a  monthly  salary 
of  three  hundred  francs,  that  is  to  say,  he  received  £\1 
a  month,  or  ^^3  a  week,  for  "  clapping  "  when  required. 
He  was  a  person  of  great  importance.  Though 
disliked  by  the  public,  he  was  petted  and  feasted  by 
actors  and  actresses,  for  a  clap  at  the  wrong  moment, 
or  want  of  applause  at  the  right,  meant  disaster;  besides, 
there  was  a  sort  of  superstitious  fear  that  being  on 
bad  terms  with  the  Chef  de  Claque  foreboded  ill  luck. 

After   performing   his   duties  for    twenty-one    years 


MADAME   SARAH    BERNHARDT      159 

with  considerable  success,  the  Chef  de  Claque  was 
dismissed,  and  it  was  decided  that  professional  applause 
should  be  discontinued.  Naturally  the  Chef  was 
indignant,  and  in  the  autumn  of  1902  sued  the  Comedie 
Fran^aise  for  30,000  francs  damages  or  a  pension. 
Paris,  however,  found  relief  in  the  absence  of  the 
original  claque^  and  gradually  one  theatre  after  another 
began  to  dispense  with  a  nuisance  it  had  endured  for 
long.  History  says  that  during  the  early  days  of  the 
claque  there  was  an  equally  obnoxious  institution,  a 
sort  of  organised  opposition  known  as  siffleurs.  It 
was  then  as  fashionable  to  whistle  a  piece  out  of  the 
world  as  to  clap  it  into  success.  There  was  a  regular 
instrument  made  for  the  purpose,  known  as  a  sifflet^ 
which  was  wooden  and  emitted  a  harsh  creaking  noise. 
No  man  thought  of  going  to  the  theatre  without  his  sifflet 
— but  the  claque  gradually  clapped  him  away.  Thus 
died  out  the  official  dispensers  of  success  or  failure. 

It  so  chanced  that  having  bicycled  through  France 
from  Dieppe  along  the  banks  of  the  Seine,  my  sister 
and  I  were  leaving  Paris  on  the  first  occasion  of  Sarah 
Bernhardt's  impersonation  of  Hamlet — that  is  to  say, 
in  May,  1899.  We  were  so  anxious  to  see  her  first 
performance,  however,  that  we  decided  to  stay  an 
extra  day.  So  far  all  was  well,  but  not  a  single  ticket 
could  be  obtained.  Here  was  disappointment  indeed. 
Of  course  our  names  were  not  on  the  first  night  list 
in  Paris  and,  as  in  England,  it  is  well-nigh  impossible 
for  any  ordinary  member  of  the  public  to  gain 
admittance  on  such  an  occasion. 

The  gentleman  in  the  box  office  became  sympathetic 


i6o  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

at    beholding   our    distress,   and    finally    suggested    he 
might  let  us  have  seats  upstairs. 

"  It  is  very  high  up,  but  you  will  see  and  hear 
everything,"  he  added. 

We  decided  to  ascend  to  the  gods,  where,  instead 
of  finding  ourselves  beside  Jupiter  and  Mars,  Venus  or 
Apollo,  we  were  seated  immediately  behind  the  claque. 

Never,  never  shall  I  forget  my  own  personal 
experience  of  the  performance  of  a  claque.  Six  men 
sat  together  in  the  centre  of  the  front  row.  The 
middle  one  had  a  marked  book — fancy  Shakespeare's 
Hamlet  marked  for  applause  ! — and  according  to  that 
book's  instructions  the  Chef  and  his  friends  clapped 
once,  twice,  thrice. 

On  ordinary  occasions  the  claque  slept  or  read,  and 
only  woke  up  to  make  a  noise  when  called  upon  by 
the  Chef  who  seemed  to  have  free  passes  for  his 
supporters  every  night,  and  took  any  one  he  liked 
to  help  him  in  his  curious  work.  The  noise  those 
men  made  at  Hamlet  was  deafening.  The  excitement 
of  the  leader  lest  the  play  should  not  go  off  well  on 
a  first  night  was  terrible — and  if  their  hands  were  not 
sore,  and  their  arms  did  not  ache,  it  was  a  wonder 
indeed.  They  were  so  appallingly  near  us,  and  so 
overpowering  and  disturbing,  nothing  but  interest  in 
the  divine  Sarah  could  have  kept  us  in  our  seats  during 
all  those  hot,  stuffy,  noisy  hours.  It  was  a  Saturday 
night,  the  piece  began  at  8  p.m.,  and  ended  at  2  a.m. 

Think  of  it,  ye  London  first-nighters  !  Especially 
in  a  French  theatre,  where  the  seats  are  torture  racks, 
the  heat  equal  to  Dante's  Inferno,  and  no  sweet  music 


MADAME   SARAH    BERNHARDT       i6i 

soothes  the  savage  breast,  only  long  dreary  entractes 
and  the  welcome — if  melancholy — three  raps  French 
playgoers  know  so  well. 

Two  years  later,  when  I  was  again  in  Paris,  there 
were  different  excitements  in  the  air,  one  a  strike  of 
coal-miners,  the  other — and  in  Paris  apparently  the 
more  important — a  strike  of  the  orchestras  at  the 
theatres.  A  few  years  previously  there  could  not  have 
been  a  strike,  for  the  sufficient  reason  there  were  no 
orchestras  ;  but  gradually  our  plan  of  having  music 
during  the  long  waits  crept  in.  The  musicians  at 
first  engaged  as  an  experiment  were  badly  paid. 
When  they  became  an  institution  they  naturally  asked 
for  more  money,  which  was  promptly  refused. 

Then  came  the  revolt.  From  the  first  violin  to  the 
big  drum  all  demanded  higher  pay.  It  seems  that 
theatre,  music  hall,  and  concert  orchestras  belong  to  a 
syndicate  of  ^Artistes  Musiciens  numbering  some 
sixteen  hundred  members.  During  the  strike  I  chanced 
to  be  present  at  a  theatre  where  there  was  generally 
an  orchestra — that  night  one  small  cottage  piano 
played  by  a  lady  usurped  its  place.  She  managed 
fairly  well — but  a  piano  played  by  a  mediocre  musician, 
does  not  add  to  the  gaiety  of  a  theatre  although  it 
may  decrease  its  melancholy.  When  November  came, 
the  strike  ceased.     The  managers  capitulated. 

The  orchestra  in  an  Eno-lish  theatre  is  a  little  world 

o 

to  itself.  The  performers  never  mix  with  the  actors, 
they  have  their  own  band-room,  and  there  they  live 
when  not  before  the  curtain.  At  the  chief  theatres, 
as  is  well  known,  the  performers  are  extremely  good, 

1 1 


1 62  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

and  that  is  because  they  are  allowed  to  "deputise"; 
when  there  is  a  grand  concert  at  the  St.  James's 
Hall  or  elsewhere,  provided  they  find  some  one  to 
take  their  place  in  their  own  orchestra,  they  may  go 
and  play.  Consequently,  when  there  is  a  big  concert 
several  may  be  away  from  their  own  theatre.  Many 
of  these  performers  remain  in  the  same  orchestra  for 
years.  For  instance,  Mr.  Alexander  told  me  he  met 
a  man  one  day  roving  at  the  back  of  the  stage,  so  he 
stopped  and  asked  whom  he  wanted.  The  man 
smiled  and  replied  : 

"  I  am  in  your  orchestra,  sir,  and  have  been  for 
eleven  years." 

"  Ah,  yes,  so  you  are  ;  I  thought  I  knew  your  face  ; 
but  I  am  accustomed  to  look  at  it  from  above,  you  see  !  " 

In  many  London  theatres  the  orchestra  is  hidden 
under  the  stage,  a  decided  advantage  with  most  plays. 

Parisian  theatres  are  strange  places.  They  are  very 
fashionable,  and  yet  they  are  most  uncomfortable. 
The  seats  are  invariably  too  small  and  too  high.  The 
result  is  there  is  nowhere  to  lay  a  cloak  or  coat,  and 
short  people  find  their  little  legs  dangling  high  above 
the  ground.  AH  this  causes  inconvenience  which  ends 
in  annoyance,  and  the  hangers-on  at  the  theatres  are 
a  veritable  nuisance.  Ugly  old  women  in  blue  aprons, 
without  caps,  pounce  upon  one  on  entering  and  pester 
for  wraps.  It  is  difficult  to  know  which  is  the  worse 
evil,  to  cling  to  one's  belongings  in  the  small  space 
allotted  each  member  of  the  audience,  or  to  let  one 
of  those  women  take  them  away.  In  the  latter  case 
before   the   last  act   she  returns  with   a  great  deal   of 


MADAME   SARAH    BERNHARDT       163 

fuss,  hands  over  the  articles,  and  demands  her  sous. 
If  the  piece  be  only  in  three  acts,  one  pays  for  being 
free  of  a  garment  for  two  of  them  and  is  annoyed 
by  its  presence  during  the  third.  Again,  when 
one  enters  a  box  these  irritating  ouvreuses  demand 
tips  ■pour  le  service  de  la  loge^  sil  vous  plait^  and 
will  often  insist  on  forcing  footstools  under  one's 
feet  so  as  to  claim  the  pourboires  afterwards.  The 
pourboires  of  the  vestiaire  are  also  a  thorn  in  the 
flesh,  and  the  system  which  exacts  payment  from 
these  women  turns  them  from  obliging  servants  into 
harpies.  How  Parisians  put  up  with  these  disagree- 
able creatures  is  surprising,  but  they  do. 

The  stage  is  conservative  in  many  ways  ;  for  instance, 
that  tiresome  plan  of  charging  for  programmes  still 
exists  in  England  in  some  theatres,  and  even  good 
theatres  too.  Programmes  cost  nothing  :  the  expense 
of  printing  is  paid  by  the  advertisements.  Free  dis- 
tribution, therefore,  does  not  mean  that  the  manage- 
ment are  out  of  pocket.  Why,  then,  do  they  not 
present  them  gratis  .?  As  things  are  it  is  most  aggra- 
vating. Suppose  two  ladies  arrive  ;  as  they  are  shown 
to  their  seats,  holding  their  skirts,  opera-bags  and 
fans  in  their  hands,  they  are  asked  for  sixpence. 
While  they  endeavour  to  extract  their  money  they 
are  dropping  their  belongings  and  inconveniencing 
their  neighbours  :  in  the  case  of  a  man  requiring 
change  the  same  annoyance  is  felt  by  all  around, 
especially  if  the  play  has  begun. 

Programmes  and  their  necessary  "  murmurings " 
are  annoying,  and  so  is   the  meagreness  of  the  space 


1 64  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

between  the  rows  of  stalls.  There  are  people  who 
openly  declare  they  never  go  to  a  theatre  because  they 
have  not  got  room  for  their  knees.  This  is  certainly 
much  worse  in  Parisian  theatres,  where  the  seats  are 
high  and  narrow  as  well  ;  but  still,  when  people  pay 
for  a  seat  they  like  room  to  pass  to  and  fro  without 
inconveniencing  a  dozen  persons  en  route. 

Matinee  hats  and  late  arrivals  are  sins  on  the  part 
of  the  audience  so  cruel  that  no  self-respecting  person 
would  inflict  either  upon  a  neighbour.  But  some 
women  are  so  inconsiderate  that  we  shall  soon  be 
reduced  to  an  American  notice  like  the  following, 
"  Ladies  who  cannot,  or  are  unwilling  to,  remove 
their  hats  while  occupying  seats  in  this  theatre, 
are  requested  to  leave  at  once  ;  their  money  will 
be  returned  at  the  box  office."  A  gentlewoman 
never  wears  a  picture  hat  at  the  play  ;  if  she  arrives 
in  one  she  takes  it  off.  In  the  same  way  a  gentleman 
makes  a  point  of  being  in  time.  People  who  offend 
in  these  respects  belong  to  a  class  which  apparently 
knows  no  better,  a  class  which  complacently  talks, 
or  makes  love,  through  a  theatrical  entertainment  ! 

Another  strange  Parisian  custom  is  the  advertise- 
ment drop-scene.  At  the  end  of  the  act,  a  curtain 
descends  literally  covered  with  pictures  and  puffs  of 
pills,  automobiles,  corsets,  or  tobacco.  After  a  tragedy 
the  effect  is  comical,  but  this  is  an  age  of  advertisement. 

But  to  return  to  Madame  Bernhardt's  Hamlet. 
When  the  great  Sarah  appeared  upon  the  scene  I 
did  not  recognise  her.  Why  }  Because  she  looked 
so     young    and    so    small.     This    woman,    who    was 


MADAME   SARAH    BERNHARDT       165 

nearly  sixty,  appeared  quite  juvenile.  This  famous 
tragedienne^  who  had  always  left  an  impression  of 
a  tall,  thin,  willowy  being  in  her  wonderful  scenes  in 
La  Tosca,  or  Dame  aux  Camellias^  deprived  of  her  train 
appeared  quite  tiny.  She  had  the  neatest  legs, 
encased  in  black  silk  stockings,  the  prettiest  feet 
with  barely  any  heel  to  give  her  height,  while  her 
flaxen  wig  whicJi  hung  upon  her  shoulders,  made 
her  look  a  youth,  in  the  sixteenth  century  clothes 
she  elected  to  wear.  At  first  I  felt  wofuUy  dis- 
appointed ;  she  did  not  act  at  all,  and  when  she  saw 
her  father's  ghost,  instead  of  becoming  excited,  as  we 
are  accustomed  to  Hamlet's  doing  in  this  country, 
she  insinuated  a  lack  of  interest,  an  "  Oh,  is  that 
really  my  father's  ghost  !  "  sort  of  style,  which  seemed 
almost  annoying  ;  but  as  she  proceeded,  I  was  filled 
with  admiration — her  players'  scene  was  a  great  coup. 

On  the  left  of  the  stage  a  smaller  one  was 
arranged  for  the  players'  scene,  and  before  it  half  a 
dozen  torches  were  stuck  in  as  footlights.  On  the 
right  there  was  a  high  raised  dais  with  steps  lead- 
ing up  on  either  side — a  sort  of  platform  erection. 
The  King  and  Queen  sat  upon  two  seats  at  the  top,  the 
courtiers  grouped  themselves  upon  the  stairs.  Im- 
mediately below  the  Royal  pair  sat  Ophelia,  and  at  her 
feet,  upon  a  white  polar-bear-skin  rug,  reclined  Sarah 
Bernhardt,  with  her  elbow  upon  Ophelia's  knee  and 
her  hand  upon  some  yellow  cushions.  As  the  play 
went  on  she  looked  up  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  King, 
but  he  was  too  high  above  her,  the  wall  of  the  plat- 
form hid  him  from  view.     Very  quietly  she  rose  from 


i66  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

her  seat,  crawled  round  to  the  back,  where  she  gradually 
and  slowly  pulled  herself  up  towards  the  dais,  getting 
upon  a  stool  in  her  eagerness  to  see  her  victim's  face. 
The  King,  in  his  excitement,  rose  from  his  seat  at 
the  fatal  moment,  and  putting  his  hand  upon  the 
balustrade,   peered  downwards  upon  the  play-actors. 

At  that  instant  Sarah  Bernhardt  rose,  and  the  two 
faces  came  close  together  across  the  barrier  in  eager 
contemplation  of  each  other.  It  was  a  magnificent 
piece  of  acting,  one  which  sent  a  thrill  through  the 
whole  house  ;  and  as  the  "  divine  Sarah  "  saw  the  guilt 
depicted  upon  her  uncle's  face  she  gave  a  shriek  of 
triumph,  a  perfectly  fiendish  shriek  of  joy,  once  heard 
never  to  be  forgotten,  and  springing  down  from  her 
post,  rushed  to  the  torch  footlights,  and  seizing  one 
in  her  hand  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  stage,  her 
back  to  the  audience,  waving  it  on  high  and  yelling 
with  wild  exultant  delight  as  the  King  and  all  his 
courtiers  slunk  away,  to  the  fall  of  the  curtain.  It 
was  a  brilliant  ending  to  a  great  act,  and  Sarah 
triumphed  not  only  in  the  novelty  of  her  rendering, 
but  in  the  manner  of  its  execution. 

Another  hit  that  struck  me  as  perfectly  wonderful 
in  its  contrasting  simplicity,  was,  when  she  sat  upon  a 
sofa,  her  feet  straight  out  before  her,  a  book  lying 
idle  upon  her  lap,  and  murmured,  mots^  mots^  or  again, 
when  she  came  in  through  the  arch  at  the  back  of  the 
stage,  and  leaning  against  its  pillar  repeated  quietly 
and  dreamily  the  lines  "  To  be,  or  not  to  be." 

Apropos  of  Hamlet^  Madame  Bernhardt  wrote  to 
the  Daily  Telegraph  : 


MADAME   SARAH    BERNHARDT       167 

"  Hamlet  r^ve  quand  il  est  seul  ;  mais  quand 
il  y  a  du  monde  il  parle  ;  il  parle  pour  cacher  sa 
pensee.   .   .  . 

"  On  me  reproche,  dans  la  scene  de  I'Oratoire,  de 
m'approcher  trop  pres  du  Roi  ;  mais,  si  Hamlet  veut 
tuer  le  Roi,  il  faut  bien  qu'il  s'approche  de  lui.  Et 
quand  il  I'entend  prier  des  paroles  de  repentir,  il  pense 
que  s'il  le  tue  il  I'enverra  au  del,  et  il  ne  tue  pas  le 
Roi  ;  non  pas  parcequ'il  est  irresolu  et  faible,  mais 
parcequ'il  est  tenace  et  logique  ;  il  veut  le  tuer  dans 
le  peche,  non  dans  le  repentir,  car  il  veut  qu'il  aille  en 
enfer,  et  pas  au  ciel.  On  veut  absolument  voir,  dans 
Hamlet,  une  ame  de  femme,  hesitante,  imponderee  ; 
moi,  j'y  vois  I'ame  d'un  homme,  resolue  mais  reflechie. 
Aussitot  que  Hamlet  voit  I'ame  de  son  pere  et  appre- 
hend le  meurtre,  il  prend  la  resolution  de  le  venger  ; 
mais,  comme  il  est  le  contraire  d'Othello,  qui  agit 
avant  'de  penser,  lui,  Hamlet,  pense  avant  d'agir,  ce 
qui  est  le  signe  d'une  grande  force,  d'une  grande 
puissance  d'ame. 

"  Hamlet  aime  Ophelie  !  il  renonce  a  Famour  !  il 
renonce  a  I'etude  !  il  renonce  a  tout  !  pour  arriver  a 
son  but !  Et  il  y  arrive  !  II  tue  le  Roi  quand  il  est 
pris  dans  le  peche  le  plus  noir,  le  plus  criminel  ;  mais 
il  ne  le  tue  que  lorsqu'il  est  absolument  sur.  Lorsqu'on 
I'envoie  en  Angleterre,  a  la  premiere  occasion  qu'il 
rencontre  il  bondit  tout  seul  sur  un  bateau  ennemi  et 
il  se  nomme  pour  qu'on  le  fasse  prisonnier,  sur  qu'on 
le  ramenera.  II  envoie  froidement  Rosencrantz  et 
Guildenstern  a  la  mort.  Tout  cela  est  d'un  etre 
jeune,  fort  et  resolu  ! 


1 68  BEHIND   THE  FOOTLIGHTS 

'*  Quand  il  reve  :  c'est  a  son  projet !  c'est  a  sa 
vengeance  !  Si  Dieu  n'avait  pas  defendu  le  suicide,  il 
se  tuerait  par  degout  du  monde  !  mais,  puisqu'il  ne 
peut  pas  se  tuer,  il  tuera  ! 

"  Enfin,  Monsieur,  permettez-moi  de  vous  dire  que 
Shakespeare,  par  son  genie  colossal,  appartient  a 
rUnivers  !  et  qu'un  cerveau  Fran^ais,  AUemand,  ou 
Russe  a  le  droit  de  I'admirer  et  de  le  comprendre. 

".SARAH  BERNHARDT. 

"LoNDRES,  k  i6  Juin,    1899." 

Madame  Bernhardt  made  Hamlet  a  man,  and  a 
strong  man — there  was  nothing  of  the  halting, 
hesitating  woman  about  her  performance,  one  which 
she  herself  loves  to  play. 

It  was  a  fine  touch  also  when  she  went  into  her 
uncle's  room,  where,  finding  him  on  his  knees,  she 
crept  up  close  behind,  and  taking  out  her  dagger, 
prepared  to  kill  him.  She  said  nothing,  but  her  play 
was  marvellous,  her  expression  of  hatred  and  loathing, 
her  pause  to  contemplate,  and  final  decision  to  let  the 
man  alone,  were  done  in  such  a  way  as  only  Sarah 
Bernhardt  could  render  them. 

Another  drama  took  place  on  this  memorable  first 
night  of  Hamlet.  Two  famous  men  when  discussing 
whether  Hamlet  ought  to  be  fat  or  thin,  struck  one 
another  in  the  face  and  finally  arranged  a  duel — a 
duel  fought  two  or  three  days  later,  which  nearly  cost 
one  of  them  his  life. 

Opposite  is  the  programme  of  the  first  night  of 
Sarah  Bernhardt's  Hamlet. 


MADAME   SARAH    BERNHARDT       169 
LA   TRAGIQUE    HISTOIRE   D' 

HAMLET 

PRINCE    DE    DANEMARK 

Drame  en   15  Tableaux  de  William    SHAKESPEARE 

Traduction  en  pi-ose  de'msl.  EuGJiNE  MORAND  et  Marcel  SCIIWOB 


W    SARAH    BERNHARDT 

HAMLET 


MM. 

Bremont 

Le  Roi 

Magnier 

Laertes 

Chameroy          

Polonius 

Deneubourg      

Horatio 

Ripert     

Le  Spectre 

SCHUTZ      

Premier  fossoyeur 

Lacroix   

Deuxieme     ,, 

Teste       

Le  Roi  Comedien 

Scheler  

Osric 

Jean  Bar  a         

Rosencrantz 

Jahan       

Voltimand 

Colas       

Bernardo 

Krauss 

Marcellus 

Laurent  

Guildenstern 

Barisier 

Fortinbras 

Stebler   

Deux™"  comedien 

Cauroy    

Francesco 

Lahor      

Un  Pretre 

Bary        

Cornelius 

Caillere            

Trois""  comedien 

Bertaut  

Un  Gentilhomme 

MMmoa 

Marthe  Mellot          

Ophclie 

Marcya 

La  Reinc  Gertrude 

Boulanger          

La  reine  comedienne 

Pretres^  Comediens,  Marins,  Officiers,  Soldats,  etc 


I70  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

There  is  a  famous  Hamlet  skull  in  America,  known 
as  Yorick's  skull,  which  is  in  the  possession  of  Dr. 
Horace   Howard   Furness,   of  Philadelphia. 

Dr.  Furness  is  one  of  the  greatest  Shakespearian 
scholars  of  the  day.  Dr.  Georg  Brandes,  of  Copen- 
hagen, Mr.  Sydney  Lee,  of  London,  and  he  probably 
know  more  of  the  work  of  this  great  genius  than 
any  other  living  persons. 

When  I  was  in  America  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
spending  a  few  days  at  Dr.  Furness's  delightful  home 
at  Wallingford,  on  the  shores  of  the  Delaware  River. 
The  place  might  be  in  England,  from  its  appear- 
ance— a  low,  rambling  old  house  with  wide  balconies, 
creeper-grown  with  roses,  and  honey-suckle  hugging 
the  porch.  The  dear  old  home  was  built  more 
than  a  century  ago,  by  some  of  Dr.  Furness's 
ancestors,  and  one  sees  the  love  of  those  ancestors 
for  the  old  English  style  manifest  at  every  turn. 
The   whole  interior    bespeaks    intellectual    refinement. 

He  stood  on  the  doorstep  to  welcome  me,  a  grey- 
headed man  of  some  sixty-eight  years,  with  a  ruddy  com- 
plexion, and  closely  cut  white  moustache.  His  manner 
was  delightful  ;  no  more  polished  gentleman  ever  walked 
this  earth  than  Horace  Howard  Furness,  the  great 
American  writer.  His  father  was  an  intimate  friend  of 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  whose  famous  portrait  at  the 
Philadelphia  Art  Gallery  was  painted  by  the  doctor's 
brother  ;  so  young  Horace  was  brought  up  amid 
intellectual  surroundings. 

At  the  back  of  the  house  is  the  world-renowned 
iron-proof    Shakespearian    library,     the    collection    of 


MADAME   SARAH    BERNHARDT       171 

forty  ardent  years.  It  is  a  veritable  museum  with  its 
upper  galleries,  its  many  tables,  and  its  endless  cases 
of  treasures.  The  books  which  line  the  walls  were  all 
catalogued  by  the  doctor  himself.  He  has  many  of 
the  earlier  editions  of  Shakespeare  besides  other  rare 
volumes.  Some  original  MSS.  of  Charles  Lamb,  beau- 
tifully written  and  signed  Elia,  are  there  ;  a  delightful 
sketch  of  Mary  Anderson  by  Forbes  Robertson  ;  Lady 
Martin's  (Helen  Faucit)  own  acting  editions  of  the  parts 
she  played  marked  by  herself  ;  and  in  a  special  glass 
case  lie  a  pair  of  grey  gauntlet  gloves,  richly  embroidered 
in  silver,  which  were  worn  by  Shakespeare  himself 
when  an  actor.  If  I  remember  rightly  they  came  from 
David  Garrick,  and  the  card  of  authenticity  is  in  the 
case.  Then  there  are  Garrick's  and  Booth's  walking- 
sticks,  and  on  a  small  ebony  stand,  the  famous  Yorick 
skull  handled  in  the  grave-digging  scene  by  all  the 
great  actors  who  have  visited  Philadelphia,  and  signed 
by   them — Booth,   Irving,   Tree,  Sothern,   etc. 

I  never  spent  a  more  delightful  evening  than  one  in 
October,  1 900,  when  the  family  went  off  to  Philadelphia 
to  see  the  dramatisation  of  one  of  Dr.  Weir  Mitchell's 
novels  by  his  son,  and  I  was  left  alone  with  Dr. 
Furness  for  some  hours. 

What  a  charming  companion.  What  a  fund  of 
information  and  humour,  what  a  courtly  manner, 
what  a  contrast  to  the  ruggedness  of  Ibsen,  or  the 
wild  energy  of  Bjornsen.  Here  was  repose  and 
strength.  Not  an  originator,  perhaps,  but  a  learned 
disciple.  How  he  loved  Shakespeare,  with  what 
reverence  he  spoke  of  him.     He  scoffed  at   the  mere 


172  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

mention   of  Bacon's  name,  and  was   glad,    very  glad, 
so  little  was  known  of  the  private  life  of  Shakespeare. 

"  He  was  too  great  to  be  mortal  ;  I  do  not  want  to 
associate  any  of  Nature's  frailties  with  such  a  mind. 
His  work  is  the  thing,  for  the  man  as  a  man  I  care 
nothing."  This  was  unlike  Brandes,  whose  brilliant 
books  on   Shakespeare   deal  chiefly   with   the   man. 

There  was  something  particularly  delightful  about 
Horace  Furness  and  his  home.  Even  the  dinner- 
table  appointments  were  his  choice.  The  soup-plates 
were  of  the  rarest  Oriental  porcelain,  and  the  meat- 
plates  were  of  silver  with  mottoes  chosen  by  himself 
round  the  borders. 

"  I  loved  my  china,  but  it  got  broken  year  by  year, 
until  in  desperation  I  looked  about  for  something  that 
could  not  break — solid  and  plain,  like  myself,  eh  .?  "  he 
chuckled.  The  mottoes  were  well  chosen  and  the 
idea  as  original  as  everything  else  about  Dr.  Furness. 

It  was  Mrs.  Kemble's  readings  that  first  awakened 
his  love  for  Shakespeare  ;  but  he  was  nearly  forty 
years  old  when  he  gave  up  law  and  devoted  himself  to 
writing  ;  much  the  same  age  as  Dr.  Samuel  Smiles 
when   he  exchanged  business  for  authorship. 

Dr.  Furness  loves  his  Shakespeare  and  thoroughly 
enjoys  his  well-chosen  library ;  but  still  an  English- 
woman cannot  help  hoping  that  when  he  has  done  with 
them,  he  will  bequeath  his  treasures  to  the  Shakes- 
peare Museum  at  Stratford-on-Avon. 


CHAPTER   IX 
AN  HISTORICAL  FIRST  NIGHT 

An  Interesting  Dinner — Peace  in  the  Transvaal^Beerbohm  Tree  as 
a  Seer— How  he  cajoled  Ellen  Terry  and  Mrs.  Kendal  to  Act — 
First-nighters  on  Camp-stools — Different  Styles  of  Mrs.  Kendal  and 
Miss  Terry — The  Fun  of  the  Thing — Bows  of  the  Dead — FalstafTs 
Discomfort — Amusing  Incidents — Nervousness  behind  the  Curtain 
— An  Author's  Feelings. 


HE  scene  was  changed. 


T 

X  It  was  the  ist  of  June.  I  remember  the  date 
because  it  was  my  birthday,  and  this  particular  June  day 
is  doubly  engraven  on  my  mind  as  the  most  im- 
portant Sunday  in  1902,  It  was  a  warm  summer's 
evening  as  I  drove  down  Harley  Street  to  dine  with 
Sir  Anderson  and  Lady  Critchett,  whose  dinners 
are  as  famous  as  his  own  skill  as  an  oculist. 

Most  of  the  company  had  assembled.  Mr,  and 
Mrs.  Kendal  were  already  there,  Frank  Wedderburn, 
K.C.,  Mr.  Luke  Fildes,  R.A,,  who  had  just  com- 
pleted his  portrait  of  the  King,  Mr.  Orchardson,  R.A., 
Mr.  Lewis  Coward,  K.C.,  and  their  wives,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Edward  Sassoon,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  W.  L. 
Courtney,  when  the  Beerbohm  Trees  were  announced. 
He  bore  a  telegram   in    his  hand. 

173 


174  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

"Have  you  heard  the  news?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  every  one  replied,  guessing  by  his  face  it 
was  something  of  importance. 

"  Peace  has  been  officially  signed,"  was  the 
reply. 

Great  was  the  joy  of  all  present.  There  had  been 
a  possibility  felt  all  day  that  the  good  news  from 
South  Africa  might  be  confirmed  on  that  Sunday, 
although  it  was  supposed  it  could  not  be  known  for 
certain  until  Monday.  Sunday  is  more  or  less  a 
dies  non  in  London,  but  as  the  tape  is  always  working 
at  the  theatre,  Mr.  Tree  had  instructed  a  clerk  to 
sit  and  watch  the  precious  instrument  all  day,  so  as 
to  let  him  have  the  earliest  information  of  so  im- 
portant an  event.  As  he  was  dressing  for  dinner 
in  Sloane  Street,  in  rushed  the  clerk,  breathless 
with  excitement,  bearing  the  news  of  the  message 
of  Peace  that  had  sped  across  a  quarter  of  the 
world. 

This  in  itself  made  that  dinner-party  memorable, 
but  it  was  memorable  in  more  ways  than  one,  as  among 
the  twenty  people  round  that  table  sat  four  of  the 
chief  performers  in  The  Merry  JVives  of  Windsor^ 
which  was  to  electrify  London  as  a  Coronation  per- 
formance ten  days  later. 

Sir  Anderson  himself  is  connected  with  the  drama, 
for  his  brother  is  Mr.  R.  C.  Carton,  the  well-known 
dramatic  author.  Sir  Anderson  is  also  an  inde- 
fatigable first-nighter,  and  being  an  excellent  raconteur^ 
knows  many  amusing  stories  of  actors  of  the  day. 
In   his  early    years  an   exceptionally  fine  voice  almost 


AN    HISTORICAL   FIRST   NIGHT       175 

tempted  him  on  to  the  lyric  stage,  but  he  has  had 
no  cause  to  regret  that  his  ultimate  choice  was 
ophthalmic  surgery. 

It  was  a  stroke  of  genius,  the  genius  of  the  seer, 
on  the  part  of  Beerbohm  Tree,  to  invite  the  two 
leading  actresses  of  England  to  perform  at  his  theatre 
during  Coronation  season. 

It  came  about  in  this  way.  On  looking  round  the 
Houses,  Mr.  Tree  noticed  that,  although  Shakespeare 
was  to  the  fore  in  the  provinces,  filling  two  or  three 
theatres,  there  happened  to  be  no  Shakespearian  pro- 
duction— except  an  occasional  matinee  at  the  Lyceum — 
going  on  in  London  during  the  Coronation  month. 
Of  course  London  without  Shakespeare  is  like  Hamlet 
without  the  Dane  to  visitors  from  the  Colonies  and 
elsewhere.  Something  must  be  done.  He  decided 
what.  A  good  all-round  representation,  played  with- 
out any  particular  star  part  would  suit  the  purpose, 
and  a  record  cast  would  suit  the  stranger.  Accord- 
ingly Mr.  Tree  jumped  into  a  hansom  and  drove 
to  Mrs.  Kendal's  home  in  Portland  Place,  where 
he  was  announced,  and  exclaimed  : 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  act  for  me  at  His 
Majesty's  for  the  Coronation  month.  Your  own 
tour  will  be  finished  by  that  time." 

For  one  hour  they  talked,  Mrs.  Kendal  declaring 
she  had  not  played  under  any  management  save  her 
husband's  for  so  many  years  that  the  suggestion 
seemed  well-nigh  impossible. 

*'  Besides,"  she  added,  "  you  should  ask  Ellen 
Terry,    who    is     my     senior,     and    stands    ahead    of 


176  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

me  in  the  profession.  She  has  not  yet  appeared 
since  she  returned  from  America.  There  is  your 
chance." 

Whereupon  there  ensued  further  discussion,  till 
finally  Mrs.  Kendal  laughingly  remarked  : 

"Well,  if  you  can  get  Ellen  Terry  to  act,  I  will 
play  with  you  both  with  pleasure." 

Off  went  Mr.  Tree  to  the  hansom,  and  directed 
the  driver  to  take  him  at  once  to  Miss  Terry's  house, 
for  he  was  determined  not  to  let  the  grass  grow  under 
his  feet.  He  brought  his  personal  influence  to  bear 
on  the  famous  actress  for  another  hour,  at  the  end  of 
which  time  she  had  consented  to  play  if  Sir  Henry 
Irving  would  allow  her.  This  permission  was  quickly 
obtained,  and  two  hours  after  leaving  Portland  Place 
Mr.  Tree  was  back  to  claim  Mrs,  Kendal's  promise. 
It  was  sharp  work  ;  one  morning  overcame  what  at 
the  outset  seemed  insurmountable  obstacles,  and  thus 
was  arranged  one  of  the  best  and  luckiest  performances 
ever  given.  For  weeks  and  weeks  that  wonderful  cast 
played  to  overflowing  houses.  The  month  wore  on, 
but  the  public  taste  did  not  wear  out,  July  found  all 
these  stars  still  in  the  firmament,  and  even  in  August 
they  remained  shining  in  town. 

Moral :  the  very  best  always  receives  recognition. 
The  "  best "  lay  in  the  acting,  for  as  a  play  the  Merry 
Wives  is  by  no  means  one  of  Shakespeare's  best.  It 
is  said  he  wrote  it  in  ten  days  by  order  of  Queen 
Elizabeth.  How  delighted  Bouncing  Bess  would 
have  been  if  she  could  have  seen  the  Coronation 
performance  ! 


Plwlo  by  Lumion  Slcnusco/:!,   Co.,  Ltd.,  r/wi/'side,  E.C. 


MR.    BEERi;OHM    TREE    AS    EAI.STAFF. 


AN    HISTORICAL   FIRST   NIGHT       177 

I  passed  down  the  Haymarket  early  in  the  morning 
preceding  that  famous  first  night.  There,  sitting  on 
camp-stools,  were  people  who  had  been  waiting  from 
5  a.m.  to  get  into  the  pit  and  gallery  that  evening. 
They  had  a  long  wait,  over  twelve  hours  some  of 
them,  but  certainly  they  thought  it  worth  while  if 
they  enjoyed  themselves  as  much  as  I  did.  It  was 
truly  a  record  performance. 

The  house  was  packed  ;  in  one  box  was  the  Lord 
Chief  Justice  of  England,  in  the  stalls  below  him 
Sir  Edward  Clarke,  at  one  time  Solicitor-General,  and 
who  has  perhaps  the  largest  practice  at  the  Bar  of 
any  one  in  London.  Then  there  was  Mr.  Kendal 
not  far  off,  watching  his  wife.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Beerbohm  Tree's  daughter — showing  a  strong  resem- 
blance to  both  parents — was  in  a  box  ;  Princess  Colonna 
was  likewise  there  ;  together  with  some  of  the  most 
celebrated  doctors,  such  as  Sir  Felix  Semon,  learned 
in  diseases  of  the  throat,  Sir  Anderson  Critchett, 
our  host  of  a  few  nights  before,  while  right  in  the 
front  sat  old  Mrs.  Beerbohm,  watching  her  son  with 
keen  interest  and  enjoyment,  and,  a  little  behind, 
that  actor's  clever  brother,  known  on  an  important 
weekly  as  "  Max,"  a  severe  and  caustic  dramatic 
critic. 

The  enthusiasm  of  the  audience  was  extraordinary. 
When  some  one  had  called  for  the  feminine  "stars" 
at  one  of  the  rehearsals,  Mrs.  Kendal,  with  ready 
wit,  seized  Ellen  Terry  by  the  hand,  exclaiming : 

"  Ancient  Lights  would  be  more  appropriate, 
methinks  !  " 

12 


178  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

Below  is  the  programme. 

TUESDAY,  JUNE   loth,   1902,   at   8.15 

SHAKESPEARE'S    COMEDY 

TBe  Merrp  Wiues  oT  Winasor 


Sir  John  FalstafF 

Master  Fenton 

Justice  Shallow 

Master  Slender 

Master  Ford 

Master  Page 

Sir  Hugh  Evans 

Dr.  Caius 

Host  of  the  "Garter" 

Bardolph 

Nym 

Pistol 

Robin      

Simple  ... 
Rugby  ... 
Mistress  Page     ... 

Mistress  Anne  Page 
Mistress  Quickly 
Mistress  Ford    ... 


...  (Cousin  to  Shallow) 
1  Gentlemen  dwelling  at 
J  Windsor 

...  {a  Welsh  Parson) 
(a  French  Physician) 
Inn 


Followers  of  Falstaff 

...    iPage  to  Falstaff) 
. . .  (^Servant  to  Slender) 
{Servant  to  Dr.  Cains) 

{Daughter  to  Mrs.  Page) 
{Servant  to  Dr.  Caius) 


Mr.  Tree 

Mr.  Gerald  Lawrence 

Mr.  J.  Fisher  White 

Mr.  Charles  Quartermain 

Mr.  Oscar  Asche 

Mr.  F.  Percival  Stevens 

Mr.  CouRTicE  Pounds 

Mr.  Henry  Kemble 

Mr.  Lionel  Brough 

Mr.  Allen  Thomas 

Mr.  S.  A.  Cookson 

Mr.  Julian  L'Estrange 

Master  Vivyan  Thomas 

Mr.  O.  B.  Clarence 

Mr.  Frank  Stanmore 

Miss  Ellen  Terry 

(By  the  Courtesy  of  Sir  HENRY  IRVING) 

Mrs.  Tree 

Miss  Zeffie  Tilbury 

Mrs.  Kendal 

(By  the  Courtesy  of  Mr,  W.  H.  KENDAL) 


Hie  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  is  a  comedy,  but 
it  was  played  on  the  first  night  as  a  comedy  of 
comedies,  every  one,  including  Lionel  Brough  as  the 
Innkeeper,  being  delightfully  jovial.  Every  one  seemed 
in  the  highest  spirits,  and  all  those  sedate  actors  and 
actresses  thoroughly  enjoyed  a  romp.     When  the  two 


AN   HISTORICAL   FIRST   NIGHT       179 

ladies  of  the  evening  appeared  on  the  scene  hand 
in  hand,  convulsed  with  laughter,  they  were  clapped 
so  enthusiastically  that  it  really  seemed  as  if  they 
would  never  be  allowed  to  begin. 

What  a  contrast  they  were,  in  appearance  and  style. 
They  had  played  together  as  children,  but  never  after, 
till  that  night.  During  the  forty  years  that  had 
rolled  over  Ellen  Terry's  head  since  those  young 
days  she  has  developed  into  a  Shakespearian  actress 
of  the  first  rank.  Her  life  has  been  spent  in  de- 
claiming blank  verse,  wearing  mediaeval  robes,  and 
enacting  tragedy  and  comedy  of  ancient  days  by  turn, 
and  added  to  her  vast  experience,  she  has  a  great 
and  wonderful  personality. 

Mrs.  Kendal,  on  the  other  hand,  who  stands  at  the 
head  of  the  comedians  of  the  day,  and  is  also  mistress 
of  her  art,  has  played  chiefly  modern  parts  and 
depicted  more  constantly  the  sentiment  of  the  time  ; 
but  has  seldom  attacked  blank  verse  ;  therefore,  the 
two  leading  actresses  of  England  are  distinctly  dis- 
similar in  training  and  style.  No  stronger  contrast 
could  have  been  imagined  ;  and  yet,  although  neither 
part  actually  suited  either,  the  finished  actress  was 
evident  in  every  gesture,  every  tone,  every  look  of 
both,  and  it  would  be  hard  to  say  which  achieved 
the  greatest  triumph,  each  was  so  perfect  in  her  own 
particular  way. 

Miss  Ellen  Terry  did  not  know  her  words — she 
rarely  does  on  a  first  night,  and  is  even  prone  to  for- 
get her  old  parts.  Appearing  in  a  new  character  that 
she  was  obliged  to  learn  for  the  occasion,  she  had  not 


i«o 


BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 


been  able  to  memorise  it  satisfactorily  ;  but  that  did 
not  matter  in  the  least.  She  looked  charming,  she 
was  charming,  the  prompter  was  ever  ready,  and  if  she 
did  repeat  a  line  a  second  time  while  waiting  to  be 
helped  with  the  next,  no  one  seemed  to  think  that 
of  any  consequence.  When  she  went  up  the  stairs 
to  hide  while  Mrs.  Kendal  (Mrs.  Ford)  made  Tree 
(Falstaff)  propose  to  her,  Mrs.  Kendal  packed  her 
off  in  great  style,  and  then  wickedly  and  with  amusing 
emphasis  remarked  : 

*'  Mistress  Page,  remember  your  cue,"  which  of 
course  brought  down  the  house. 

Their  great  scene  came  in  the  third  act,  when  they 
put  Falstaff  into  the  basket.  Mr.  Tree  was  excellent 
as  the  preposterously  fat  knight — a  character  verily 
all  stuff  and  nonsense.  He  is  a  tall  man,  and  in  his 
mechanical  body  reaches  enormous  girth.  Falstaff  and 
the  Merry  Wives  had  a  regular  romp  over  the  upset 
of  the  basket,  and  the  audience  entering  into  the  fun 
of  the  thing  laughed  as  heartily  as  they  did.  Oh 
dear,  oh  dear  !   how  every  one  enjoyed  it. 

A  few  nights  later  during  this  same  scene  Mr.  Tree 
was  observed  to  grow  gradually  thinner.  He  seemed 
to  be  going  into  a  *'  rapid  decline,"  for  his  belt  began 
to  slip  about,  and  his  portly  form  grew  less  and  less. 
Ellen  Terry  noticed  the  change  :  it  was  too  much 
for  her  feelings.  With  the  light-hearted  gaiety  of 
a  child  she  was  convulsed  with  mirth.  She  pointed 
out  the  phenomenon  to  Mrs.  Kendal,  who  at  once 
saw  the  humour  of  it,  as  did  the  audience,  but  the 
chief  actor  could    not  fathom    the    cause  of  the    im- 


AN   HISTORICAL   FIRST   NIGHT       i8i 

moderate  hilarity  until  his  belt  began  to  descend. 
Then  he  realised  that  "  Little  Mary  " — which  in  his 
case  was  an  air  pillow — had  lost  her  screw,  and  was 
rapidly  fading  away. 

But  to  return  to  that  memorable  first  night  ;  as 
the  curtain  fell  on  the  last  act  the  audience  clapped 
and  clapped,  and  not  content  with  having  the  curtain 
up  four  or  five  times,  called  and  called  until  the  entire 
company  danced  hand  in  hand  across  the  stage  in  front 
of  the  curtain.  Even  that  was  not  enough,  although 
poor  Mrs,  Kendal  lost  her  enormous  horned  head- 
dress during  the  dance.  The  curtain  had  to  be  rung 
up  again  and  again,  till  Mr.  Tree  stepped  forward  and 
said  he  had  no  speech  to  make  beyond  thanking  the 
two  charming  ladies  for  their  assistance  and  support, 
whereupon  these  two  executed  pas  seuls  on  either  side 
of  the  portly  FalstafF, 

It  was  a  wonderful  performance,  and  although  the 
two  women  mentioned  stood  out  pre-eminently,  one 
must  not  forget  Mrs.  Tree,  who  appeared  as  "  Sweet 
Anne  Page."  She  received  quite  an  ovation  when 
her  husband  brought  her  forward  to  bow  her  acknow- 
ledgments. Bows  on  such  an  occasion  or  in  such  a 
comedy  are  quite  permissible  ;  but  was  ever  anything 
more  disconcerting  than  to  see  an  actor  who  has  just 
died  before  us  in  writhing  agony,  spring  forward  to 
bow  at  the  end  of  some  tragedy — to  rise  from  the 
dead  to  smile — to  see  a  man  who  has  just  moved  us 
to  tears  and  evoked  our  sympathy,  stand  gaily  before 
us,  to  laugh  at  our  sentiment  and  cheerily  mock  at 
our  enthusiasm  .''     Could  anything  be  more  inartistic  } 


1 82  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

A  "  call "  often  spoils  a  tragedy,  not  only  in  the  theatre 
but  at  the  opera.  Over  zeal  on  the  part  of  the 
audience,  and  over  vanity  on  the  side  of  the  actor, 
drags  away  the  veil  of  mystery  which  is  our  make- 
believe  of  reality,  and  shows  glaringly  the  make- 
believe  of  the  whole  thing. 

Mr.  Beerbohm  Tree  never  hesitates  to  tell  a  story 
against  himself,  and  he  once  related  an  amusing  ex- 
perience in  connection  with  his  original  production  of 
The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

In  the  final  scene  at  Heme's  oak,  where  Falstaff 
is  pursued  by  fairy  elves  and  sprites,  the  burly 
knight  endeavours  to  escape  from  his  tormentors 
by  climbing  the  trunk  of  a  huge  tree.  In  order  to 
render  this  possible  the  manager  had  ordered  some 
pegs  to  be  inserted  in  the  bark,  but  on  the  night 
of  the  final  dress  rehearsal  these  necessary  aids  were 
absent.  A  carpenter  was  summoned,  and  Mr.  Tree, 
pointing  to  his  namesake,  said  in  tones  of  the  deepest 
reproach  : 

"  No  pegs  !     No  pegs  ! 

When  the  eventful  first  night  came  Falstaff  found 
to  his  annoyance  and  amazement  that  he  was  still  un- 
able to  compass  the  climb  by  which  he  hoped  to  create 
much  amusement.  On  the  fall  of  the  curtain  the 
delinquent  was  again  called  into  the  managerial 
presence  and  addressed  in  strong  terms.  He,  however, 
quickly  cut  short  the  reproof  by  exclaiming  : 

*'  'Ere,  I  say,  guvnor,  'old  'ard  :  what  was  your 
words  last  night  at  the  re-'earsal  ?  '  No  pegs,'  you 
said — '  no  pegs ' — well,  there  ain't  none,"  and  he  gave 


AN   HISTORICAL   FIRST   NIGHT       183 

a  knowing  smack  of  the  lips  as  if  to  insinuate  another 
kind  of  peg  would  be  acceptable. 

Experience  has  shown  Mr.  Tree  that  he  can  give 
the  necessary  appearance  of  bloated  inflation  to  the 
cheeks  of  the  fat  knight  by  the  aid  of  a  paint-brush 
alone  ;  but  then  Mr.  Tree  mixes  his  paints  with 
brains.  When  he  first  essayed  the  character  of 
Falstaff  he  relied  for  his  effect  on  cotton  wool  and 
wig-paste.  Even  now  his  nose  is  deftly  manipulated 
with  paste  to  increase  its  size  and  shape,  and  1  once 
saw  him  give  it  a  tweak  after  a  performance  with 
droll  effect.  A  little  lump  of  nose-paste  remained 
in  his  hand,  while  his  own  white  organ  shone  forth 
in  the  midst  of  a  rubicund  countenance. 

On  an  early  occasion  at  the  Crystal  Palace  Mr.  Tree 
was  delighted  at  a  burst  of  uproarious  merriment 
on  the  part  of  the  audience,  and  flattered  himself 
that  the  scene  was  going  exceptionally  well.  Happen- 
ing to  glance  downwards,  however,  he  saw  that  the 
padding  had  slipped  from  his  right  leg,  leaving  him 
with  one  lean  shank  while  the  other  leg  still  assumed 
gigantic  proportions.  He  looked  down  in  horror. 
The  audience  were  not  laughing  with  him,  but  at 
him.  He  endeavoured  to  beat  a  hasty  retreat,  but 
found  he  could  not  stir,  for  one  of  his  cheeks  had 
fallen  off  when  leaning  forward,  and  in  more  senses 
than  one  he  had  "  put  his  foot  in  it  "  and  required 
extra  cheek,  not  less,  to  compass  an  exit  from  the 
stage. 

Such  are  the  drolleries  incumbent  on  a  character 
like  Falstaff. 


1 84  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Mr.  Tree  has  his  serious  moments,  however,  and 
none  are  more  serious  than  his  present  contemplation 
of  his  Dramatic  School,  which  he  believes  "  will 
appeal  not  only  to  the  profession  of  actors,  but  to 
all  interested  in  the  English  theatre,  the  English 
language,  and  English  oratory,  men  whose  talents 
are  occupied  in  public  life,  in  politics,  in  the  pulpit, 
or  at  the  Bar.  Unless  a  dramatic  school  can  be 
self-supporting  it  is  not  likely  to  survive.  Acting 
cannot  be  taught — but  many  things  can — such  as 
voice-production,  gesture  and  deportment,  fencing  and 
dancing." 

Every  one  will  wish  his  bold  venture  success  ;  and 
if  he  teaches  a  few  of  our  "  well-known  "  actors  and 
actresses  to  speak  so  that  we  can  follow  every  word  of 
what  they  say,  which  at  present  we  often  cannot  do, 
he  will  confer  a  vast  boon  on  English  playgoers,  and 
doubtless  add  largely  to  the  receipts  of  the  theatres. 
It  is  a  brave  effort  on  his  part,  and  he  deserves  every 
encouragement. 

As  this  chapter  began  with  a  first-night  perform- 
ance, it  shall  end  with  first-night  thoughts. 

Are  we  not  one  and  all  hypercritical  on  such 
occasions  ? 

We  little  realise  the  awful  strain  behind  the  scenes 
in  the  working  of  that  vast  machinery,  the  play.  Not 
only  is  the  author  anxious,  but  the  actors  and  actresses 
are  worn  out  with  rehearsals  and  nervousness  : 
property  men,  wig-makers,  scene-painters,  and  fly-men 
are  all  in  a  state  of  extreme  tension.  The  front 
of  the  house  little  realises  what  a  truly  awful   ordeal 


Plioto  by  II  imioii'  £'  Giuvc    Baker  Ulietl,  II'. 

MISS    EILEN    TERRY    AS    QUEEN    KATHERl.XE. 


AN   HISTORICAL   FIRST   NIGHT       185 

a  first  night  Is  for  all  concerned,  and  while  it  is  kind 
to  encourage  by  clapping,  it  is  cruel  to  condemn  by- 
hissing  or  booing. 

All  behind  the  footlights  do  their  best,  or  try  so 
far  as  nervousness  will  let  them,  and  surely  we  in  the 
audience  should  not  expect  a  perfect  or  a  smooth 
representation,  and  should  give  encouragement  when- 
ever possible. 

After  all,  however  much  the  actors  may  suffer 
from  nervousness  and  anxiety  on  a  first  night,  their 
position  is  not  really  so  trying  as  that  of  the  author. 
If  the  actor  is  not  a  success,  it  may  be  "  the  part  does 
not  suit  him,"  or  "  it  is  a  bad  play,"  there  may  be 
the  excuse  of  "  want  of  adequate  support,"  for  he 
is  only  one  of  a  number  ;  but  the  poor  author  has 
to  bear  the  brunt  of  everything.  If  his  play  fail 
the  whole  thing  is  a  fiasco.  He  is  blamed  by  every 
one.  It  costs  more  to  put  on  another  play  than  to 
change  a  single  actor.  The  author  stands  alone  to 
receive  abuse  or  praise ;  he  knows  that,  not  only 
may  failure  prove  ruin  to  him,  but  it  may  mean  loss 
to  actors,  actresses,  managers,  and  even  the  call  boy. 
Therefore  the  more  conscientious  he  is,  the  more 
torture  he  suffers  in  his  anxiety  to  learn  the  pubHc 
estimation  of  his  work.  The  criticism  may  not  be 
judicious,  but  if  favourable  it  brings  grist  to  the  mill 
of  all  concerned. 


CHAPTER    X 

OPERA    COMIC 

How  W.  S.  Gilbert  loves  a  Joke — A  Brilliant  Companion — Operas 
Reproduced  without  an  Altered  Line — Many  Professions — A 
Lovely  Home — Sir  Arthur  Sullivan's  Gift — A  Rehearsal  of  Pinafore 
— Breaking  up  Crowds — Punctuality — Soldier  or  no  Soldier — 
lolanthe — Gilbert  as  an  Actor — Gilbert  as  Audience — The  Japanese 
Anthem — Amusement. 

FEW  authors  are  so  interesting  as  their  work — 
they  generally  reserve  their  wit  or  trenchant 
sarcasm  for  their  books.  W.  S.  Gilbert  is  an  exception 
to  this  rule,  however  ;  he  is  as  amusing  himself  as 
his  Bab  Ballads^  and  as  sarcastic  as  H.M.S.  Pinafore. 
A  sparkling  librettist,  he  is  likewise  a  brilliant  talker. 
How  he  loves  a  joke,  even  against  himself.  How 
well  he  tells  a  funny  story,  even  if  he  invent  it  on  the 
spot  as  "perfectly  true." 

His  mind  is  so  quick,  he  grasps  the  stage-setting 
of  a  dinner-party  at  once,  and  forthwith  adapts  his 
drama  of  the  hour  to  exactly  suit  his  audience. 

Like  all  amusing  people,  he  has  his  quiet  moments, 
of  course  ;  but  when  Mr.  Gilbert  is  in  good  form 
he  is  inimitable.  He  talks  like  his  plays,  turns 
everything  upside-down  with  wondrous  rapidity,  and 
propounds  nonsensical  theories  in  delightful  language. 

i86 


OPERA    COMIC  187 

He  is  assuredly  the  greatest  wit  of  his  day,  and  to 
him  we  owe  the  origin  of  musical-comedy  in  its 
best  form. 

With  a  congenial  companion  Mr.  Gilbert  is  in  his 
element.  He  is  a  fine-looking  man  with  white  hair 
and  ponderous  moustache,  and  owing  to  his  youthful 
complexion  appears  younger  than  his  years.  He  loves 
to  have  young  people  about  him,  and  is  never  happier 
than  when  surrounded  by  friends. 

In  1 90 1,  after  an  interval  of  nearly  twenty  years, 
his  clever  comic  opera  lolanthe  was  revived  at  the 
Savoy  with  great  success.  Not  one  line,  not  one 
word  of  its  original  text  had  been  altered,  yet  it 
took  London  by  storm,  just  as  did  Pinafore  when 
produced  for  the  second  time.  How  few  authors' 
work  will  stand  so  severe  a  test. 

The  genesis  of  lolanthe  is  referable,  like  many  of 
Mr.  Gilbert's  libretti,  to  one  of  the  Bab  Ballads. 
The  "  primordial  atomic  globule  "  from  which  it  traces 
its  descent  is  a  poem  called  The  Fairy  Curate^  in 
which  a  clergyman,  the  son  of  a  fairy,  gets  into 
difficulties  with  his  bishop,  who  catches  him  in  the 
act  of  embracing  an  airily  dressed  young  lady,  whom 
the  bishop  supposes  to  be  a  member  of  the  corps  de 
ballet.  The  bishop,  reasonably  enough,  declines  to 
accept  the  clergyman's  explanation  that  the  young 
lady  is  his  mother,  and  difficulties  ensue.  In  the 
opera,  Strephon,  who  is  the  son  of  the  fairy  lolanthe, 
is  detected  by  his  fiancee  Phyllis  in  the  act  of 
embracing  his  mother  ;  Phyllis  takes  the  bishop's  view 
of  the  situation,  and  complications  arise. 


1 88  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Mr.  Gilbert  has  penned  such  well-known  blank 
verse  dramas  as  The  Palace  of  Truth,  Pygmalion  and 
Galatea,  The  Wicked  World,  Broken  Hearts^  besides 
many  serious  and  humorous  plays  and  comedies — 
namely,  Dan  I  Druce,  Engaged,  Sweethearts,  Comedy  and 
Tragedy,  and  some  dozen  light  operas. 

It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  almost  every  comedian 
wishes  to  be  a  tragedian,  and  vice  versa,  and  Mr. 
Gilbert  is  said  to  have  had  a  great  and  mighty  sorrow 
all  his  life.  He  always  wanted  to  write  serious  dramas 
— long,  five-act  plays  full  of  situations  and  thought. 
But  no  ;  fate  ordained  otherwise,  when,  having  for 
a  change  started  his  little  barque  as  a  librettist,  he 
had  to  persevere  in  penning  what  he  calls  "  nonsense." 
The  public  were  right ;  they  knew  there  was  no  other 
W.  S.  Gilbert  ;  they  wanted  to  be  amused,  so  they 
continually  clamoured  for  more  ;  and  if  any  one  did 
not  realise  his  genius  at  the  first  production,  he  can 
hardly  fail  to  do  so  now,  when  the  author's  plays  are 
again  presented  after  a  lapse  of  years,  without  an 
altered  line,  and  still  make  long  runs.  Some  say  the 
art  of  comedy-writing  is  dying  out,  and  certainly  no 
second  Gilbert  seems  to  be  rising  among  the  younger 
men  of  the  present  day,  no  humourist  who  can  call 
tears  or  laughter  at  will,  and  send  his  audience  away 
happy  every  night.  The  world  owes  a  debt  of 
gratitude  to  this  gifted  scribe,  for  he  has  never  put 
an  unclean  line  upon  the  stage,  and  yet  provokes 
peals  of  laughter  while  shyly  giving  his  little  digs  at 
existing  evils.  His  style  has  justly  created  a  name  of 
its  own. 


OPERA    COMIC  189 

W.  S.  Gilbert  has  always  had  a  deep-rooted  objection 
to  newspaper  interviews,  just  as  he  refuses  ever  to  see 
one  of  his  own  plays  performed.  He  attends  the  last 
rehearsal,  gives  the  minutest  directions  up  to  the 
final  moment,  and  then  usually  spends  the  evening 
in  the  green-room  or  in  the  wings  of  the  theatre. 
Very  few  authors  accept  fame  or  success  more  philo- 
sophically than  he  does.  When  Princess  Ida  was 
produced  he  was  sitting  in  the  green-room,  where 
there  was  an  excitable  Frenchman,  who  had  supplied 
the  armour  used  in  the  piece.  The  play  was  going 
capitally,  and  the  Frenchman  exclaimed,  in  wild  excite- 
ment, "  Mais  savez-vous  que  nous  avons  la  un  succes 
solide  }  "  To  which  Mr.  Gilbert  quietly  replied,  "  Yes, 
your  armour  seems  to  be  shining  brightly." 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  the  Frenchman,  with  a  gesture 
of  amazement,  "  mais  vous  etes  si  calme  !  " 

And  this  would  probably  describe  the  outward 
appearance  of  the  author  on  a  first  night  ;  neverthe- 
less nothing  will  induce  him  to  go  in  front  even  with 
reproductions. 

Mr.  Gilbert,  who  was  born  in  1836,  proudly 
remarks  that  he  has  cheated  the  doctors  and  signed 
a  new  lease  of  life  on  the  twenty-one  years'  principle. 
During  those  sixty-eight  years  he  has  turned  his 
hand  to  many  trades.  After  a  career  at  the  London 
University,  where  he  took  his  B.A.  degree,  he  read 
for  the  Royal  Artillery,  but  the  Crimean  war  was 
coming  to  an  end,  and  consequently,  more  officers 
not  being  required,  he  became  a  clerk  in  the  Privy 
Council    Office,    and   was    subsequently   called    to    the 


I90  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Bar  at  the  Inner  Temple.  He  was  also  an  enthu- 
siastic militiaman,  and  at  one  time  an  occasional 
contributor  to  Punch,  becoming  thus  an  artist  as 
well  as  a  writer.  His  pictures  are  well  known,  for 
the  two  or  three  hundred  illustrations  in  the  Bab 
Ballads  are  all  from  his  clever  pencil.  Neatly  framed 
they  now  adorn  the  billiard-room  of  his  charming 
country  home,  and,  strange  to  relate,  the  originals 
are  not  much  larger  than  the  reproductions,  the  work 
being  extremely  fine.  I  have  seen  him  make  an  excel- 
lent sketch  in  a  few  minutes  at  his  home  on  Harrow 
Weald  ;  but  photography  has  latterly  cast  its  fascina- 
tions about  him,  and  he  often  disappears  into  some 
dark  chamber  for  hours  at  a  time,  alone  with  his 
thoughts  and  his  photographic  pigments,  for  he  de- 
velops and  prints  everything  himself.  The  results 
are  charming,  more  especially  his  scenic  studies. 

What  a  lovely  home  his  is,  standing  in  a  hundred 
and  ten  acres  right  on  the  top  of  Harrow  Weald, 
with  a  glorious  view  over  London,  Middlesex, 
Berks,  and  Bucks.  He  farms  the  land  himself,  and 
talks  of  crops  and  live  stock  with  a  glib  tongue, 
although  the  real  enthusiast  is  his  wife,  who  loves 
her  prize  chickens  and  her  roses.  Grim's  Dyke  has 
an  ideal  garden,  with  white  pigeons  drinking  out  of 
shallow  Italian  bowls  upon  the  lawn,  with  its  wonderful 
Egyptian  tent,  its  rose-walks  and  its  monkey-house, 
its  lake  and  its  fish.  The  newly-made  lake  is  so 
well  arranged  that  it  looks  quite  old  with  its  bulrushes, 
water-lilies  of  pink,  white,  and  yellow  hue,  and  its  blue 
forget-me-nots.     The   Californian  trout  have  proved  a 


OPERA   COMIC  191 

great  success,  and  are  a  source  of  much  sport.  Every- 
thing is  well  planned  and  beautifully  kept  ;  no  better 
lawns  or  neater  walks,  no  more  prolific  glass  houses  or 
vegetable  gardens  could  be  found  than  those  at  Harrow 
Weald. 

The  Gilberts  give  delightful  week-end  parties,  and 
the  brightest  star  is  generally  the  host  himself. 

At  one  of  these  recent  gatherings,  for  which  Grim's 
Dyke  is  famous,  some  beautiful  silver  cups  and  a  claret 
jug  were  upon  the  table.  They  were  left  by  will  to 
Mr.  Gilbert  by  his  colleague  of  so  many  years.  Sir 
Arthur  Sullivan,  and  are  a  great  pleasure  to  both  the 
host  and  hostess  of  that  well-organised  country  house. 
I  have  met  many  interesting  and  clever  people  at 
Harrow  Weald,  for  the  brilliancy  of  the  host  and 
the  charm  of  his  wife  naturally  attract  much  that  is 
best  in  this  great  city.  It  is  a  good  house  for  enter- 
taining, the  music-room — formerly  the  studio  of  F. 
Goodall,  R.A. — being  a  spacious  oak-panelled  chamber 
with  a  minstrels'  gallery,  and  cathedral  windows.  Ex- 
cellent singing  is  often  heard  within  those  walls. 
Mr.  Gilbert  declares  he  is  not  musical  himself ;  but 
such  is  hardly  the  case,  for  he  on  one  or  two  occa- 
sions suggested  to  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan  the  style  best 
suited  to  his  words.  His  ear  for  time  and  rhythm 
is  impeccable,  but  he  fully  admits  he  has  an  imperfect 
sense  of  tune. 

The  Squire  of  Harrow  Weald  is  seen  at  his  best  at 
rehearsal. 

H.M.S.  Pinafore  was  first   performed,  I   believe,   in 
1878,   and  about  ten  years   afterwards  it  was  revived 


192  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

in  London.  Ten  years  later,  that  is  to  say  1899,  it 
was  again  revived,  and  one  Monday  morning  when 
I  was  leaving  Grim's  Dyke,  Mr,  Gilbert,  who  was 
coming  up  to  town  to  attend  a  rehearsal,  asked  me 
if  I  would  care  to  see  it. 

*'  Nothing  I  should  like  better,"  I  replied,  "  for  I 
have  always  understood  that  you  and  Mr.  Pinero  are 
the  two  most  perfect  stage  managers  in  England." 

We  drove  to  the  stage  door  of  the  Savoy,  whence 
down  strange  and  dark  stone  stairs  we  made  our 
way  to  the  front  of  the  auditorium  itself.  We  crossed 
behind  the  footlights,  passing  through  a  small,  unpre- 
tending iron  door  into  the  house,  Mr.  Gilbert  leading 
the  way,  to  a  side  box,  which  at  the  moment  was 
shrouded  in  darkness  ;  he  soon,  however,  pushed  aside 
the  white  calico  dust-sheets  that  hung  before  it,  and 
after  placing  chairs  for  his  wife  and  myself,  and  hoping 
we  should  be  comfortable,  departed.  What  a  spectre 
that  theatre  was  !  Hanging  from  gallery  to  pit  were 
dust-sheets,  the  stalls  all  covered  up  with  brown 
holland  wrappers,  and  gloom  and  darkness  on  all 
things.  Verily  a  peep  behind  the  scenes  which,  more 
properly  speaking,  was  before  the  scenes  in  this  case, 
is  like  looking  at  a  private  house  preparing  for  a 
spring  cleaning. 

Built  out  over  what  is  ordinarily  the  orchestra,  was 
a  wooden  platform  large  enough  to  contain  a  piano 
brilliantly  played  by  a  woman,  beside  whom  sat  the 
conductor  of  the  orchestra,  who  was  naturally  the 
teacher  of  the  chorus,  and  next  to  him  the  ordinary 
stage  manager,  with   a   chair  for    Mr.  Gilbert    placed 


Plioln  by  La>i<;fiir,  2^a,  Old  lioiid  Sircel,  London,  W. 
MR.    \V.    S.    GILBERT. 


OPERA   COMIC  193 

close  by.  The  librettist,  however,  never  sat  on  that 
chair.  From  11.30  to  1.30 — exactly  two  hours,  he 
walked  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  stage,  directing 
here,  arranging  there ;  one  moment  he  was  showing 
a  man  how  to  stand  as  a  sailor,  then  how  to  clap 
his  thighs  in  nautical  style,  and  the  next  explaining 
to  a  woman  how  to  curtsey,  or  telling  a  lover  how 
to  woo.  Never  have  I  seen  anything  more  remark- 
able. In  no  sense  a  musician,  Mr.  Gilbert  could 
hum  any  of  the  airs  and  show  the  company  the 
minutest  gesticulations  at  the  same  time.  Be  it  under- 
stood they  were  already  word  and  music  perfect,  and 
this  was  the  second  "  stage  rehearsal."  He  never  bullied 
or  worried  any  one,  he  quietly  went  up  to  a  person, 
and  in  the   most  insinuating  manner  said  : 

"  If  I  were  you,  I  think  I  should  do  it  like  this." 

And  '*  this  "  was  always  so  much  better  than  their 
own  performance  that  each  actor  quickly  grasped  the 
idea  and  copied  the  master.  He  even  danced  when 
necessary,  to  show  them  how  to  get  the  right  number 
of  steps  in  so  as  to  land  them  at  a  certain  spot  at  a 
certain  time,  explaining  carefully : 

"  There  are  eight  bars,  and  you  must  employ  so 
many  steps." 

Mr.  Gilbert  knows  every  bar,  every  intonation, 
every  gesture,  the  hang  of  every  garment,  and  the 
tilt  of  every  hat.  He  has  his  plans  and  his  ideas, 
and  never  alters  the  situations  or  even  the  gestures 
he  has  once  thought  out. 

He  marched  up  and  down  the  stage  advising  an 
alteration  here,  an  intonation  there,  all  in  the  kindest 

13 


194  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

way  possible,  but  with  so  much  strength  of  convic- 
tion that  all  his  suggestions  were  adopted  without  a 
moment's  hesitation.  He  never  loses  his  temper, 
always  sees  the  weak  points,  and  is  an  absolute  master 
of  stage  craft.  His  tact  on  such  occasions  is  wonderful. 
The  love  and  confidence  of  that  company  in  Mr. 
Gilbert  was  really  delightful,  and  I  have  no  hesitation 
in  saying  he  was  the  best  actor  in  the  whole  company 
whichever  part  he  might  happen  to  undertake.  If 
anything  he  did  not  like  occurred  in  the  grouping  of 
the  chorus  he  clapped  his  hands  and  everybody 
stopped,  when  he  would  call  out : 

"  Gentlemen  in  threes,  ladies  in  twos,"  according 
to  a  style  of  his  own. 

Twenty-five  years  previously  he  had  been  so 
horrified  at  chorus  and  crowd  standing  round  the  stage 
in  a  ring,  that  he  invented  the  idea  of  breaking  them 
up,  and  thereafter,  according  to  arrangement,  when 
"twos"  or  "threes"  were  called  out  the  performers 
were  to  group  themselves  and  talk  in  little  clusters, 
and  certainly  the  effect  was  more  natural. 

Mr.  Gilbert  had  no  notes  of  any  kind.  He  brought 
them  with  him,  but  never  opened  the  volume,  and 
yet  he  knew  exactly  how  everything  ought  to  be 
done.  This  was  his  first  rehearsal  with  the  company, 
who  up  till  then  had  been  in  the  stage  manager's 
hands  and  worked  according  to  printed  instructions. 
The  scene  was  a  very  different  affair  after  the  master- 
mind had  set  the  pawns  in  their  right  squares,  and 
made  the  bishops  and  knights  move  according  to 
his  will.     In   two  hours  they  had    gone    through    the 


OPERA   COMIC  195 

first  act  of  Pinafore^  and  he  clapped  his  hands  and 
called  for  luncheon. 

"  It  is  just  half-past  one,"  he  said  ;  *'  I  am  hungry, 
and  I  daresay  you  are  hungry,  so  we  will  halt  for 
half  an  hour.  I  shall  be  back  by  five  minutes  past 
two — that  is  five  minutes'  grace,  when  " — bowing 
kindly — "  I  shall  hope  to  see  you  again,  ladies  and 
gentlemen." 

We  three  lunched  at  the  Savoy  next  door,  and  a 
few  minutes  before  two  he  rose  from  the  table,  ere 
he  had  finished  his  coffee,  and  said  he  must  go. 

*'  You  are  in  a  hurry,"  I  laughingly  said. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  I  have  made  it  a  rule  never 
to  be  late.  The  company  know  I  shall  be  there, 
so  the  company  will  be  in  their  places." 

A  friend  once  congratulated  him  on  his  punctuality. 

"  Don't,"  he  said  ;  "  I  have  lost  more  time  by 
being  punctual  than  by  anything  else." 

One  thing  in  particular  struck  me  as  wonderful 
during  the  rehearsal.  Half  a  dozen  soldiers  are  sup- 
posed to  come  upon  the  stage,  and  at  a  certain  point 
half  a  dozen  untidily  dressed  men  with  guns  in  their 
hands  marched  in,  Mr.  Gilbert  looked  at  them  for 
a  moment,  and  then  he  went  up  to  one  gallant  warrior 
and  said  : 

"  Is  that  the  way  you  hold  your  gun  } " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Really  !  Well,  I  never  saw  a  soldier  with  his 
thumbs  down  before — in  fact,  I  don't  think  you  are  a 
soldier  at  all." 

"  No,  sir,  I  am  a  volunteer." 


196  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Mr.  Gilbert  turned  to  the  stage  manager  hastily, 
and  said  : 

"  I  told  you  I  wanted  soldiers." 

*' But  there  is  a  sergeant,"  he  replied. 

"  Sergeant,"  called  Mr.  Gilbert,  "  step  forward." 
Which  the  sergeant  did. 

"  You  know  your  business,"  the  author  remarked, 
watching  the  man's  movements,  '*  but  these  fellows 
know  nothing.  Either  bring  me  real  soldiers,  or  else 
take  these  five  men  and  drill  them  until  at  least  they 
know  how  to  stand  properly  before  they  come  near 
me  again." 

Later  in  the  proceedings  a  dozen  sailors  marched 
on  :  he  went  up  to  them,  asked  some  questions  about 
how  they  would  man  the  yard-arm,  and  on  hearing 
their  reply  said  : 

"  I  see  you  know  your  business,  you'll  do." 

As  it  turned  out,  they  were  all  Naval  Reserve 
men,  so  no  wonder  they  knew  their  business.  Still, 
Mr.  Gilbert's  universal  knowledge  of  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men  struck  me  as  wonderful  on  this 
and  many  other  occasions.  No  more  perfect  stage 
manager  exists,  and  no  one  gets  more  out  of  his 
actors  and  actresses. 

At  one  time  Patience  was  being  played  in  the 
United  States  by  dozens  of  companies,  but  that  was 
before  the  days  of  copyright,  and  poor  Mr.  Gilbert 
never  received  a  penny  from  America  excepting  once 
when  a  kindly  person  sent  him  a  cheque  for  _;^ioo. 
Had  he  received  copyright  fees  from  the  United 
States  his  wealth  would  have  been  colossal. 


I 


OPERA   COMIC  197 

When  lolanthe  was  revived  in  London  in  1902  I 
again  attended  a  "  call."  An  entirely  new  company 
began  rehearsing  exactly  ten  days  before  the  first  night 
— any  one  who  knows  anything  of  the  stage  will  realise 
what  this  means,  and  that  a  master-mind  was  necessary 
to  drill  actors  and  chorus  in  so  short  a  time — yet  the 
production  was  a  triumph.  This  was  the  first  occasion 
on  which  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan  did  not  conduct  the 
dress  rehearsal  or  the  first  night  of  one  of  their  joint 
operas.     He  had  died  shortly  before. 

Mr,  Gilbert  was  delighted  with  the  cast,  and 
declared  it  was  quite  as  good,  and  in  some  respects 
perhaps  better,  than  the  original  had  been.  A  few 
of  the  people  had  played  principals  in  the  provinces 
before  ;  but  he  would  not  allow  any  of  their  own 
"  business  "  and  remarked  quietly  : 

"  In  London  my  plays  are  produced  as  I  wish 
them  ;  in  the  provinces  you  can  do  as  you  like." 

And  certainly  they  obeyed  him  so  implicitly  that 
if  he  had  asked  them  all  to  stand  on  their  heads  in 
rows,  I  believe  they  would  have  done  it  smilingly. 

When  Mr.  Gilbert  was  about  thirty-five  years  old, 
a  matinee  of  Broken  Hearts  was  arranged  for  a  charity. 
The  author  arrived  at  the  theatre  about  one  o'clock, 
to  find  Kyrle  Bellew,  who  was  to  play  the  chief  part, 
had  fallen  through  a  trap  and  was  badly  hurt.  There 
was  no  understudy — and  only  an  hour  intervened 
before  the  advertised  time  of  representation. 

Good  Heavens  !  what  was  to  be  done  }  The  audience 
had  paid  their  money,  which  the  charity  wanted 
badly,  and  without  the  hero  the  play  was  impossible. 


198  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

He  good-naturedly  and  kind-heartedly  decided  to 
play  the  part  himself  rather  than  let  the  entertainment 
fall  through,  wired  for  wig  and  clothes,  and  an  hour 
and  a  half  later  walked  on  to  the  stage  as  an  actor. 
He  knew  every  line  of  the  play  of  course,  not  only 
the  hero's,  but  all  the  others',  and  he  had  just  coached 
every  situation.  The  papers  duly  thanked  him  and 
considered  him  a  great  success.  That  was  his  only 
appearance  upon  the  stage  in  public. 

For  twenty-five  years  he  never  saw  one  of  his 
own  plays,  not  caring  to  sit  in  front  ;  but  once,  at 
a  watering-place  in  the  Fatherland  where  The  Mikado 
was  being  given,  some  friends  persuaded  him  to  see 
it  in  German. 

"  I  know  what  rubbish  these  comic  operas  are, 
and  I  should  feel  ashamed  to  sit  and  hear  them  and 
know  they  were  mine,"  he  modestly  remarked. 

Nevertheless  he  went,  and  was  rather  amused,  feeling 
no  responsibility  on  his  shoulders,  and  afterwards  saw 
'The  Mikado  in  England  at  a  revival  towards  the  end 
of  the  nineties.  He  once  told  me  a  rather  amusing 
little  story  about  The  Mikado.  A  gentleman  who  had 
been  many  years  in  the  English  Legation  at  Yokohama, 
attended  some  of  the  rehearsals,  and  was  most  useful 
in  giving  hints  as  to  positions  and  manners  in  Japan. 
Mr.  Gilbert  wanted  some  effective  music  for  the 
entrance  of  the  Mikado — nothing  Mr.  Arthur  Sullivan 
suggested  suited — so  turning  to  the  gentleman  he 
said  : 

"  Can't  you  hum  the  national  Japanese  anthem ,?  " 

*'  Oh  yes,"  he  said  cheerily.     And  he  did. 


OPERA   COMIC  199 

'*  Capital — it'll  just  do." 

Mr.  Sullivan — for  he  was  not  then  Sir  Arthur — 
made  notes,  wrote  it  up,  and  the  thing  proved  a  great 
success.  Some  time  afterwards  a  furious  letter  came 
from  a  Japanese,  saying  an  insult  had  been  offered 
the  Mikado  of  Japan,  the  air  to  which  that  illustrious 
prince  entered  the  scene  instead  of  being  royal  was 
a  music  hall  tune  !  Whether  this  is  so  or  not 
remains  a  mystery,  anyway  it  is  a  delightful  melody, 
and  most  successful  to  this  day. 

Mr.  Gilbert  has  been  a  great  traveller — for  many 
years  he  wintered  abroad  in  India,  Japan,  Burmah, 
Egypt,  or  Greece,  and  at  one  time  he  was  the  enthu- 
siastic owner  of  a  yacht  ;  but  this  amusement  he  has 
given  up  because  so  few  of  his  friends  were  good 
sailors,  and  so  he  has  taken  to  motoring  instead. 

Croquet-playing  and  motoring  are  the  chief  amuse- 
ments of  this  "  retired  humourist,"  as  a  local  cab-driver 
once  described  the  Squire  of  Grim's  Dyke. 


CHAPTER    XI 

THE  FIRST  PANTOMIME  REHEARSAL 

Origin  of  Pantomime — Drury  Lane  in  Darkness — One  Thousand 
Persons — Rehearsing  the  Chorus — The  Ballet — Dressing-rooms — 
Children  on  the  Stage — Size  of  "  The  Lane  " — A  Trap-door — The 
Property-room — Made  on  the  Premises — Wardrobe-woman — 
Dan  Leno  at  Rehearsal — Herbert  Campbell — A  Fortnight  Later — 
A  Chat  with  the  Principal  Girl — Miss  Madge  Lessing. 

EXACTLY  nine  days  before  Christmas,  1902,  the 
first  rehearsal  for  the  pantomime  of  Mother 
Goose  took  place  at  Drury  Lane.  It  seemed  almost 
incredible  that  afternoon  that  such  a  thing  as  a  "  first 
night,"  with  a  crowded  house  packed  full  of  critics, 
could  witness  a  proper  performance  nine  days  later, 
one  of  which,  being  a  Sunday,  did  not  count. 

The  pantomime  is  one  of  England's  institutions. 
It  originally  came  from  Italy,  but  as  known  to-day 
is  essentially  a  British  production,  and  little  under- 
stood anywhere  else  in  the  world.  For  the  last  three 
years,  however,  the  Drury  Lane  pantomime  has  been 
moved  bodily  to  New  York  with  considerable  success. 

What  would  Christmas  in  London  be  without  its 
Drury  Lane  ?  What  would  the  holidays  be  without 
the  clown  and  harlequin  }     Young  and  old  enjoy  the 


FIRST   PANTOMIME   REHEARSAL      201 

exquisite  absurdity  of  the  nursery  rhyme  dished  up 
as  a  Christmas  pantomime. 

The  interior  of  that  vast  theatre,  Drury  Lane,  was 
shrouded  in  dust-sheets  and  darkness,  the  front  doors 
were  locked,  excepting  at  the  booking  office,  where 
tickets  were  being  sold  for  two  and  three  months 
ahead,  and  a  long  queue  of  people  were  waiting  to 
engage  seats  for  family  parties  when  the  pantomime 
should  be  ready. 

At  the  stage  door  all  was  bustle  ;  children  of  all 
ages  and  sizes  were  pushing  in  and  out  ;  carpenters, 
shifters,  supers,  ballet  girls,  chorus,  all  were  there, 
too  busy  to  speak  to  any  one  as  they  rushed  in  from 
their  cup  of  tea  at  the  A. B.C.,  or  stronger  drink 
procured  at  the  "  pub  "  opposite.  It  was  a  cold, 
dreary  day  outside  ;  but  it  was  colder  and  drearier 
within.  Those  long  flights  of  stone  steps,  those 
endless  stone  passages,  struck  chill  and  cheerless  as 
a  cellar,  for  verily  the  back  of  a  theatre  resembles  a 
cellar  or  prison  more  than  anything  I  know. 

Drury  Lane  contains  a  little  world.  It  is  reckoned 
that  about  one  thousand  people  are  paid  *'  back  and 
front  "  every  Friday  night.  One  thousand  persons ! 
That  is  the  staff  of  the  pantomime  controlled  by  Mr. 
Arthur  Collins.  Fancy  that  vast  organisation,  those 
hundreds  of  people,  endless  scenery,  and  over  two 
thousand  dresses  superintended  by  one  man,  and  that 
a  young  one. 

For  many  weeks  scraps  of  Mother  Goose  had  been 
rehearsed  in  drill-halls,  schoolrooms,  and  elsewhere, 
but  never  till  the  day  of  which  I  write  had  the  stage 


202  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

been  ready  for  rehearsal.  They  had  worked  hard, 
all  those  people  ;  for  thirteen-and-a-half  hours  on  some 
days  they  had  already  been  "  at  it."  Think  what 
thirteen-and-a-half-hours  mean.  True,  no  one  is 
wanted  continuously,  still  all  must  be  on  the  spot. 
Often  there  is  nowhere  to  sit  down,  therefore  during 
those  weary  hours  the  performers  have  to  stand — 
only  between-whiles  singing  or  dancing  their  parts  as 
the  case  may  be. 

"  I'm  that  dead  tired,"  exclaimed  a  girl,  "  I  feel 
just  fit  to  drop,"  and  she  probably  expressed  the 
feelings  of  many  of  her  companions. 

The  rehearsal  of  The  Rose  of  the  Riviera^  was  going 
on  in  the  saloon,  which  a  hundred  years  ago  was 
the  fashionable  resort  of  all  the  fops  of  the  town. 
Accordingly  to  the  saloon  I  proceeded  where  Miss 
Madge  Lessing,  neatly  dressed  in  black  and  looking 
tired,  was  singing  her  solos,  and  dancing  her  steps 
with  the  chorus. 

"  It  is  very  hard  work,"  she  said.  "  I  have  been 
through  this  song  until  I  am  almost  voiceless  ;  and  yet 
I  only  hum  it  really,  for  if  we  sang  out  at  rehearsal,  we 
should  soon  be  dead." 

The  saloon  was  the  ordinary  foyer^  but  on  that 
occasion,  instead  of  being  crowded  with  idlers  smoking 
and  drinking  during  the  entractes^  it  was  filled  with 
hard-worked  ballet  girls  and  small  boys  who  were 
later  to  be  transformed  into  dandies.  They  wore  their 
own  clothes.  The  women's  long  skirts  were  held  up 
with  safety-pins,  to  keep  them  out  of  the  way  when 
dancing,  their  shirts  and  blouses  were  of  every  hue  ; 


FIRST  PANTOMIME  REHEARSAL       203 

on  their  heads  they  wore  men's  hats  that  did  not  fit 
them,  as  they  lacked  the  wigs  they  would  wear  later, 
and  each  carried  her  own  umbrella,  many  of  which, 
when  opened,  seemed  the  worse  for  wear.  At  the 
end  of  the  bar  was  a  cottage  piano,  where  the  com- 
poser played  his  song  for  two-and-a-half  hours,  while 
it  was  rehearsed  again  and  again — a  small  man  with 
a  shocking  cold  conducting  the  chorus.  He  is,  1 
am  told,  quite  a  celebrity  as  a  stage  "  producer," 
and  was  engaged  in  that  capacity  by  Mr.  George 
Edwards  at  the  New  Gaiety  Theatre.  How  I  admired 
that  small  man.  His  energy  and  enthusiasm  were 
catching,  and  before  he  finished  he  had  made  those 
girls  do  just  what  he  wanted.  But  oh  !  how  hard 
he  worked,  in  spite  of  frequent  resort  to  his  pocket- 
handkerchief  and  constant  fits  of  sneezing. 

"  This  way,  ladies,  please  " — he  repeated  over  and 
over,  and  then  proceeded  to  show  them  how  to  step 
forward  on  "  Would — you  like  a — flower  }  "  and  to 
take  oflF  their  hats  at  the  last  word  of  the  sentence. 
Again  and  again  they  went  through  their  task  ;  but 
each  time  they  seemed  out  of  line,  or  out  of  time,  not 
quick  enough  or  too  quick,  and  back  they  had  to  go 
and  begin  the  whole  verse  once  more.  Even  then 
he  was  not  satisfied. 

"  Again,  ladies,  please,"  he  called,  and  again  they  all 
did  the  passage.  This  sort  of  thing  had  been  going  on 
since  11  o'clock,  the  hour  ofthe"call,"  and  it  was  then 
4  p.m. — but  the  rehearsal  was  likely  to  last  well  into 
the  night  and  begin  again  next  morning  at  1 1  a.m. 
This  was  to  continue  all  day,  and  pretty  well  all  night 


204  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

for  nine  days,  when,  instead  of  a  holiday,  the  pantomime 
was  really  to  commence  with  its  two  daily  performances, 
and  its  twelve  hours  per  diem  attendance  at  the  theatre 
for  nearly  four  months.  Yet  there  are  people  who 
think  the  stage  is  all  fun  and  frolic  !  Litde  they  know 
about  the  matter. 

Actors  are  not  paid  for  rehearsals,  as  we  have  seen 
before,  and  many  weeks  of  weary  attendance  for  the 
pantomime  have  to  be  given  gratis,  just  as  they  are  for 
legitimate  drama.  Those  beautiful  golden  fairies, 
all  glitter  and  gorgeousness,  envied  by  spectators  in 
front,  only  receive  ;^i  a  week  on  an  average  for  twelve 
hours'  occupation  daily,  and  that  merely  for  a  few 
weeks,  after  which  time  many  of  them  earn  nothing 
more  till  the  next  pantomime  season.  It  is  practically 
impossible  to  give  an  exact  idea  of  salaries  :  they  vary 
so  much.  "  Ballet  girls,"  when  proficient,  earn  more 
than  any  ordinary  "  chorus "  or  "  super,"  with  the 
exception  of  "  show  girls,"  Those  in  the  rank  of 
"  principals,"  or  "  small-part  ladies,"  of  course  earn 
more. 

Ballet  girls  begin  their  profession  at  eight  years  of 
age,  and  even  in  their  prime  can  only  earn  on  an 
average  £2  a  week. 

In  the  ballet-room  an  iron  bar  runs  all  round  the 
sides  of  the  wall,  about  four  feet  from  the  floor,  as 
in  a  swimming  bath.  It  is  for  practice.  The  girls 
hold  on  to  the  bar,  and  learn  to  kick  and  raise  their 
legs  by  the  hour  ;  with  its  aid  suppleness  of  move- 
ment, flexibility  of  hip  and  knee  are  acquired.  Girls 
spend    years  of   their   life  learning    how   to  earn   that 


FIRST  PANTOMIME   REHEARSAL       205 

forty  shillings  a  week,  and  how  to  keep  it  when  they 
have  earned  it  ;  for  the  ballet  girl  has  to  be  continually 
practising,  or  her  limbs  would  quickly  stiffen  and  her 
professional  career  come  to  an  end. 

No  girl  gets  her  real  training  at  the  Lane.  All  that 
is  done  in  one  of  the  dancing  schools  kept  by  Madame 
Katti  Lanner,  Madame  Cavalazzi,  John  D'Auban,  or 
John  Tiller.  When  they  are  considered  sufficiently 
proficient  they  get  engagements,  and  are  taught  certain 
movements  invented  by  their  teachers  to  suit  the 
particular  production  of  the  theatre  itself. 

The  ballet  is  very  grand  in  the  estimation  of  the 
pantomime,  for  supers,  male  and  female,  earn  consider- 
ably less  salary  than  the  ballet  for  about  seventy-two 
hours'  attendance  at  the  theatre.  Out  of  their  weekly 
money  they  have  to  provide  travelling  expenses  to  and 
from  the  theatre,  which  sometimes  come  heavy,  as 
many  of  them  live  a  long  distance  off;  they  have  to 
pay  rent  also,  and  feed  as  well  as  clothe  themselves, 
settle  for  washing,  doctor,  amusements — everything,  in 
fact.  Why,  a  domestic  servant  is  a  millionaire  when 
compared  with  a  chorus  or  ballet  girl,  and  she  is  never 
harassed  with  constant  anxiety  as  to  how  she  can  pay 
her  board,  rent,  and  washing  bills.  Yet  how  little 
the  domestic  servant  realises  the  comforts — aye  luxury 
— of  her  position. 

The  dressing-rooms  are  small  and  cheerless.  Round 
the  sides  run  double  tables,  the  top  one  being  used  for 
make-up  boxes,  the  lower  for  garments.  In  the 
middle  of  the  floor  is  a  wooden  stand  with  a  double 
row  of  pegs  upon  it,  utilised  for  hanging  up  dresses. 


2o6  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Eight  girls  share  a  "  dresser  "  (maid)  between  them. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  room  may  be  imagined,  with 
flaring  gas  jets,  nine  women,  and  barely  room  to  turn 
round  amid  the  dresses.  The  air  becomes  stifling  at 
times,  and  there  is  literally  no  room  to  sit  down  even 
if  the  costumes  would  permit  of  such  luxury,  which 
generally  they  will  not.  In  this  tiny  room  performers 
have  to  wait  for  their  "  call,"  when  they  rush  down- 
stairs, through  icy  cold  passages,  to  the  stage,  whence 
they  must  return  again  in  time  to  don  the  next  costume 
required. 

Prior  to  the  production,  as  we  have  seen,  there  are 
a  number  of  rehearsals,  followed  for  many  weeks  by 
two  performances  a  day,  consequently  the  children 
who  are  employed  cannot  go  on  with  their  education, 
and  to  avoid  missing  their  examinations  a  school- 
board  mistress  has  been  appointed,  who  teaches  them 
their  lessons  during  the  intervals.  These  children 
must  be  bright  scholars,  for  they  are  the  recipients 
at  the  end  of  the  season  of  several  special  prizes  for 
diligence,  punctuality,  and  good  conduct. 

An  attempt  was  recently  made  to  Hmit  the  age  of 
children  employed  on  the  stage  to  fourteen,^  but  the 
outcry  raised  was  so  great  that  it  could  not  be  done. 
For  children  under  eleven  a  special  licence  is  required. 

Miss  Ellen  Terry  said,  on  the  subject  of  children 
on  the  stage  :  "  I  am  an  actress,  but  first  I  am  a 
woman,  and  I  love  children,"  and  then  proceeded  to 
advocate  the  employment  of  juveniles  upon  the  stage. 
She  spoke  from  experience,  for  she  acted  as  a  child 
herself.      "  I  can  put  my  finger  at  once  on   the  actors 


FIRST   PANTOMIME  REHEARSAL      207 

and  actresses  who  were  not  on  the  stage  as  children," 
she  continued.  '*  With  all  their  hard  work  they  can 
never  acquire  afterwards  that  perfect  unconsciousness 
which  they  learn  then  so  easily.  There  is  no  school 
like  the  stage  for  giving  equal  chances  to  boys  and 
girls  alike." 

There  seems  little  doubt  about  it,  the  ordinary  stage 
child  is  the  offspring  of  the  very  poor,  his  playground 
the  gutter,  his  surroundings  untidy  and  unclean,  his 
food  and  clothing  scanty,  and  such  being  the  case  he 
is  better  off  in  every  way  in  a  well-organised  theatre, 
where  he  learns  obedience,  cleanliness,  and  punctuality. 
The  sprites  and  fairies  love  their  plays,  and  the  greatest 
punishment  they  can  have — indeed,  the  only  one  in- 
flicted at  Drury  Lane — is  to  be  kept  off  the  stage  a 
whole  day  for  naughtiness. 

They  appear  to  be  much  better  off  in  the  theatre 
than  they  would  be  at  home,  although  morning  school 
and  two  performances  a  day  necessitate  rather  long 
hours  for  the  small  folk.  They  have  a  nice  class- 
room, and  are  given  buns  and  milk  after  school  ;  but 
their  dressing  accommodation  is  limited.  Many  of 
the  supers  and  children  have  to  change  as  best  they 
can  under  the  stage,  for  there  is  not  sufficient  accom- 
modation for  every  one  in  the  rooms. 

The  once  famous  "  Green-room  "  of  Drury  Lane 
has  been  done  away  with.  It  is  now  a  property- 
room,  where  geese's  heads  line  the  shelves,  or 
golden  seats  and  monster  champagne  bottles  litter 
the  floor. 

There  have  been  many  changes  at  Drury  Lane.      It 


2o8  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

was  rebuilt  after  the  fire  in  1809,  and  reopened  in 
1 8 1 2,  but  vast  alterations  have  been  carried  out  since 
then.  Woburn  Place  is  now  part  of  the  stage. 
Steps  formerly  led  from  Russell  Street  to  Vinegar 
Yard,  but  they  have  been  swept  away  and  the  stage 
enlarged  until  it  is  the  biggest  in  the  world.  Most 
ordinary  theatres  have  an  opening  on  the  auditorium  of 
about  twenty-five  feet  ;  Drury  Lane  measures  fifty-two 
feet  from  fly  to  fly,  and  is  even  deeper  in  proportion. 
The  entire  stage  is  a  series  of  lifts,  which  may  be 
utilised  to  move  the  floor  up  or  down.  Four  tiers, 
or  "  flats,"  can  be  arranged,  and  the  floor  moved 
laterally  so  as  to  form  a  hill  or  mound.  All  this  is 
best  seen  from  the  mezzanine  stage,  namely,  that  under 
the  real  one,  where  the  intricacies  of  lifts  and  ropes 
and  rooms  for  electricians  become  most  bewildering. 
Here,  too,  are  the  trap-doors.  For  many  years  they 
went  out  of  fashion,  as  did  also  the  ugly  masks,  but 
a  Fury  made  his  entrance  by  a  trap  on  Boxing  Day, 
1902,  and  this  may  revive  the  custom  again.  The 
actor  steps  on  a  small  wooden  table  in  the  mezzanine 
stage,  and  at  a  given  sign  the  spring  moves  and  he  is 
shot  to  the  floor  above.  How  I  loved  and  pondered 
as  a  child  over  these  wonderful  entrances  of  fairies 
and  devils.  And  after  all  there  was  nothing  super- 
natural about  them,  only  a  wooden  table  and  a  spring. 
How  much  of  the  glamour  vanishes  when  we  look 
below  the  surface,  which  remark  applies  not  only  to 
the  stage,  but  to  so  many  things  in  life. 

Every  good    story    seems    to    have    been    born    a 
chestnut.      Some  one  always  looks  as  if  he  had  heard 


FIRST  PANTOMIME  REHEARSAL       209 

it  before.  At  the  risk  of  arousing  that  sarcastic  smile 
I  will  relate  the  following  anecdote,  however. 

A  certain  somewhat  stout  Mephistopheles  had  to 
disappear  through  a  trap-door  amid  red  fire,  but  the 
trap  was  small  and  he  was  big  and  stuck  halfway. 
The  position  was  embarrassing,  when  a  voice  from  the 
gallery  called  out  : 

"  Cheer  up,  guv'nor.     Hell's  full." 

Electricity  plays  a  great  part  in  the  production 
of  a  pantomime,  not  only  as  regards  the  lighting  of 
the  scenes,  but  also  as  a  motive  power  for  the  lifts 
which  are  used  for  the  stage.  Many  new  inventions 
born  during  the  course  of  a  year  are  utilised  when  the 
Christmas  festival  is  put  on. 

The  property-room  presents  a  busy  scene  before  a 
pantomime,  and  really  it  is  wonderful  what  can  be 
produced  within  its  walls.  Almost  everything  is  made 
in  papier  mdchi.  Elaborate  golden  chairs  and  couches, 
chariots  and  candelabras,  although  framed  in  wood, 
are  first  moulded  in  clay,  then  covered  with  papier  mdche. 
Two  large  fires  burned  in  the  room,  which  when  I 
entered  was  crowded  with  workmen,  and  the  heat 
was  overpowering.  Amid  all  that  miscellaneous  property, 
every  one  seemed  interested  in  what  he  was  doing, 
whether  making  wire  frames  for  poke  bonnets,  or 
larger  wire  frames  for  geese,  or  the  groundwork  of 
champagne  bottles  to  contain  little  boys.  Each  man 
had  a  charcoal  drawing  on  brown  paper  to  guide  him, 
and  very  cleverly  many  of  the  drawings  were  executed. 
Some  of  the  men  were  quite  sculptors,  so  admirably 
did  they   model   masks    and    figures  in  papier   mdche. 

14 


2IO  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

The  more  elaborate  pieces  are  prepared  outside  the 
theatre,  but  a  great  deal  of  the  work  for  the  production 
is  done  within  old  Drury  Lane. 

What  becomes  of  these  extra  property-men  after 
the  "  festive  season  "  ?  Practically  the  same  staff 
appear  each  Christmas  only  to  disappear  from  "  The 
Lane  "  for  almost  another  year.  Of  course  there  is  a 
large  permanent  staff  of  property-men  employed, 
but  it  is  only  at  Christmas-time  that  so  large  an  army 
is  required  for  the  gigantic  pantomime  changes  with 
the  transformation  scenes. 

That  nearly  everything  is  made  on  the  premises 
is  in  itself  a  marvel.  Of  course  the  grander  dresses 
are  obtained  from  outside  ;  some  come  from  Paris, 
while  others  are  provided  by  tradesmen  in  London. 
The  expense  is  very  great  ;  indeed,  it  may  be  roughly 
reckoned  it  costs  about  ^20,000  to  produce  a  Drury 
Lane  Pantomime  ;  but  then,  on  the  other  hand,  that 
sum  is  generally  taken  at  the  doors  or  by  the  libraries 
in  advance-booking  before  the  curtain  rises  on  the 
first  night. 

An  important  person  at  Drury  Lane  is  the  wardrobe- 
woman.  She  has  entire  control  of  thousands  of  dresses, 
and  keeps  a  staff  continually  employed  mending  and 
altering,  for  after  each  performance  something  requires 
attention.  She  has  a  little  room  of  her  own,  mostly 
table,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  on  which  were  piled 
dresses,  poke  bonnets,  and  artists'  designs,  while  round 
the  walls  hung  more  dresses  brought  in  for  her  in- 
spection. In  other  odd  rooms  and  corners  women  sat 
busily  sewing,  some  trimming  headgear,  other  spangling 


FIRST  PANTOMIME  REHEARSAL       211 

ribbon.  Some  were  joining  seams  by  machinery,  others 
quilling  lace  ;  nothing  seemed  finished,  and  yet  every- 
thing had  to  be  ready  in  nine  days,  and  that  vast  pile 
of  chaos  reduced  to  order.  It  seemed  impossible  ;  but 
the  impossible  was  accomplished. 

"  Why  this  hurry  ?  "  some  one  may  ask. 
"  Because  the  autumn  drama  was  late  in  finishing, 
the  entire  theatre  had  to  be  cleared,  and  although 
everything  was  fairly  ready  outside,  nothing  could 
be  brought  into  Drury  Lane  till  a  fortnight  before 
Boxing  Day.     Hence  the   confusion  and   hurry." 

Large  wooden  cases  of  armour,  swords  and  spears, 
from  abroad,  were  waiting  to  be  unpacked,  fitted  to 
each  girl,  and  numbered  so  that  the  wearer  might 
know  her  own. 

Among  the  properties  were  some  articles  that  looked 
like  round  red  life-belts,  or  window  sand-bags  sewn 
into  rings.  These  were  the  belts  from  which  fairies 
would  be  suspended.  They  had  leather  straps  and 
iron  hooks  attached,  with  the  aid  of  which  these  lovely 
beings — as  seen  from  the  front — disport  themselves. 
What  a  disillusion !  Children  think  they  are  real 
fairies  flying  through  air,  and  after  all  they  are  only 
ordinary  women  hanging  to  red  sand-bags,  made  up 
like  life-belts,  and  suspended  by  wire  rope.  Even 
those  wonderful  wings  are  only  worn  for  a  moment. 
They  are  slipped  into  a  hole  in  the  bodice  of  every 
fairy's  back  just  as  she  goes  upon  the  stage,  and  taken 
out  again  for  safety  when  the  good  lady  leaves  the 
wings  in  the  double  sense.  The  wands  and  other 
larger  properties  are  treated  in  the  same  way. 


212  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Now  for  the  stage  and  the  rehearsal.  We  could 
hear  voices  singing,  accompanied  by  a  piano  with  many 
whizzing  notes. 

The  place  was   dimly  lighted.     Scene-shifters    were 
busy  rehearsing  their  "  sets  "  at  the  sides,  the  electrician 
was    experimenting    with    illuminations    from   above  ; 
but  the  actors,   heeding  none  of  these  matters,   went 
on  with   their   own  parts.     The  orchestra  was    empty 
and  not  boarded  over  ;  so  that  the  cottage  piano  had 
to   stand  at  one  side  of  the  stage,  and  near  it  I  was 
given    a    seat.       A    T-piece    of  gas    had    been    fixed 
above    the  footlights,   so   as    to    enable    the    prompter 
to  follow  his  book,  and — gently  be  it   spoken — allow 
some  of  the  actors  to  read  their  parts.     The  star  was 
not  there — 1    looked  about    for    the   mirth-provoking 
Dan  Leno,  but  failed  to  see  him.     Naturally  he  was 
the  one  person  I  particularly  wanted  to  watch  rehearse, 
for  I  anticipated  much  amusement  from  this  wonderful 
comedian,  with  his  inspiring  gift  of  humour.      Where 
was  he  ? 

A  sad,  unhappy-looking  little  man,  with  his  MS. 
in  a  brown  paper  cover,  was  to  be  seen  wandering 
about  the  back  of  the  stage.  He  appeared  miserable. 
One  wondered  at  such  a  person  being  there  at  all, 
he  looked  so  out  of  place.  He  did  not  seem  to 
know  a  word  of  his  "  book,"  or,  in  fact,  to  belong  in 
any  way  to  the  pantomime. 

It  seemed  incredible  that  this  could  be  one  of  the 
performers.  He  wore  a  thick  top  coat  with  the 
collar  turned  up  to  keep  off  the  draughts,  a  thick 
muffler   and    a   billycock  hat  ;    really  one    felt    sorry 


FIRST  PANTOMIME  REHEARSAL       213 

for  him,  he  looked  so  cold  and  wretched.  I 
pondered  for  some  time  why  this  sad  little  gentleman 
should  be  on  the  stage  at  all. 

"  Dan,  Dan,  where  are  you  ?  "  some  one  called. 
"  Me  ?     Oh,    I'm    here,"    replied    the    disconsolate- 
looking  person,  to  my  amazement. 
*'  It's  your  cue." 

"  Oh,  is  it .?  Which  cue  ^  "  asked  the  mufflered 
individual  who  was  about  to  impersonate  mirth. 

"Why,  so  and  so " 

"  What  page  is  that  .''  " 
"  Twenty-three." 

Whereupon  the  great  Dan — for  it  was  really  Dan 
himself — proceeded  to  find  number  twenty-three,  and 
immediately  began  reading  a  lecture  to  the  goose  in 
mock  solemn  vein,  when  some  one  cried  : 

"  No,  no,  man,  that's  not  it,  you  are  reading  page 
thirteen  ;  we've  done  that." 

'*  Oh,  have  we  ?  Thank  you.     Ah  yes,  here  it  is." 
"That's    my    part,"    exclaimed    Herbert   Campbell. 

"  Your  cue  is " 

"  Oh,  is  it  .f'  "  and  poor  bewildered,  unhappy- 
looking  Dan  made  another  and  happier  attempt. 

It  had  often  previously  occurred  to  me  that  Dan  Leno 
gagged  his  own  part  to  suit  himself  every  night — and 
really  after  this  rehearsal  the  supposition  seemed  founded 
on  fact,  for  apparently  he  did  not  know  one  word  of 
anything  nine  days  before  the  production  of  Mother 
Goose,  in  which  he  afterwards  made  such  a  brilliant  hit. 
"  Do  I  say  that  ? ''  he  would  inquire,  or,  "  Are 
you  talking  to  me  ?  " 


214  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

After  such  a  funny  exhibition  it  seemed  really- 
wonderful  to  consider  how  excellent  and  full  of 
humour  he  always  is  on  the  stage  ;  but  what  a  strain 
it  must  be,  what  mental  agony,  to  feel  you  are  utterly 
unprepared  to  meet  your  audience,  that  you  do  not 
know  your  words,  and  that  only  by  making  a  herculean 
effort  can  the  feat  be  accomplished. 

Herbert  Campbell  differs  from  Dan  Leno  not  only 
in  appearance  but  method.  He  was  almost  letter- 
perfect  at  that  rehearsal,  he  had  studied  his  "  book," 
and  was  splendidly  funny  even  while  only  murmuring 
his  part.  He  evidently  knew  exactly  what  he  was 
going  to  do,  and  although  he  did  not  trouble  to  do 
it,  showed  by  a  wave  of  his  hand  or  a  step  where 
he  meant  business  when  the  time  came. 

Herbert  Campbell's  face,  like  the  milkmaid's,  is 
his  fortune.  That  wonderful  under. lip  is  full  of  fun. 
He  has  only  to  protrude  it,  and  open  his  eyes,  and 
there  is  the  comedian  personified.  Comedians  are 
born,  not  made,  and  the  funny  part  of  it  is  most 
of  them  are  so  truly  tragic  at  heart  and  sad  in 
themselves. 

There  is  a  story  I  often  heard  my  grandfather, 
James  Muspratt,   tell  of  Liston,  the  comic  actor. 

Listen  was  in  Dublin  early  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  and  nightly  his  performance  provoked  roars 
of  laughter.  One  day  a  man  walked  into  the  con- 
sulting-room of  a  then  famous  doctor. 

"  I  am  very  ill,"  said  the  patient.  "  I  am  suffer- 
ing from  depression." 

"  Tut,    tut,"    returned    the    physician,    "  you    must 


FIRST  PANTOMIME   REHEARSAL       215 

pull  yourself  together,  you  must  do  something  to 
divert  your  thoughts.  You  must  be  cheerful  and 
laugh." 

"  Good  Heavens  !  I  would  give  a  hundred  pounds 
to  enjoy  a  real,  honest  laugh  again,  doctor." 

"  Well,  you  can  easily  do  that  for  a  few  shillings, 
and  I'll  tell  you  how.  Go  and  see  Liston  to-night, 
he  will  make  you  laugh,  I  am  sure." 

"  Not  he." 

«  Why  not  .?  " 

"  Because  I  am  Liston." 

Collapse  of  the  doctor. 

This  shows  the  tragedy  of  the  life  of  a  comic 
actor.  How  often  we  see  the  amusing,  delightful 
man  or  woman  in  society,  and  little  dream  how 
different  they  are  at  home.  Most  of  us  have  two 
sides  to  our  natures,  and  most  of  us  are  better  actors 
than  we  realise  ourselves,  or  than  our  friends  give 
us  credit  for. 

But  to  return  to  Drury  Lane.  Peering  backwards 
across  the  empty  orchestra  I  saw  by  the  dim  light 
that  in  the  stalls  sat,  or  leaned,  women  and  children. 
Mr.  Collins,  who  was  in  the  front  of  the  stage, 
personally  attending  to  every  detail,  slipped  forward. 

"  Huntsmen  and  gamekeepers,"  he  cried.  Im- 
mediately there  was  a  flutter,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
these  good  women — for  women  were  to  play  the  roles 
— were  upon  the  back  of  the  stage. 

"  Dogs,"  he  called  again.  With  more  noise  than 
the  female  huntsmen  had  made,  boys  got  up  and  began 
to  run  about  the  stage  on  all  fours  as  "  dogs." 


2i6  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

They  surrounded  Dan  Leno. 

"  I  shall  hit  you  if  you  come  near  me,"  he  cried, 
pretending  to  do  so  with  his  doubled-up  gloves. 

The  lads  laughed. 

"  Growl,"  said  Mr.  Collins — so  they  turned  their 
laugh  into  a  growl,  followed  round  the  stage  by  Dan, 
and  the  performance  went  on. 

It  was  all  very  funny — funny,  not  because  of  any 
humour,  for  that  was  entirely  lacking,  but  because 
of  the  simplicity  and  hopelessness  of  every  one.  Talk 
about  a  rehearsal  at  private  theatricals — why,  it  is  no 
more  disturbing  than  an  early  stage  rehearsal .;  but 
the  seasoned  actor  knows  how  to  pull  himself  out 
of  the  tangle,  whereas  the  amateur  does  not. 

About  a  fortnight  after  the  pantomime  began  I 
chanced  one  afternoon  to  be  at  Drury  Lane  again,  and 
while  stopping  for  a  moment  in  the  wings,  the  great 
Dan  Leno  came  and  stood  beside  me,  waiting  for  his 
cue.  He  was  dressed  as  Mother  Goose,  and  leant 
against  the  endless  ropes  that  seemed  to  frame  every 
stage  entrance  ;  some  one  spoke  to  him,  but  he  barely 
answered,  he  appeared  preoccupied.  All  at  once  his 
turn  came.  On  he  went,  hugging  a  goose  beneath 
which  walked  a  small  boy.  Roars  of  applause  greeted 
his  entrance,  he  said  his  lines,  and  a  few  moments 
later  came  out  amid  laughter  and  clapping.  "  This 
will  have  cheered  him  up,"  thought  I — but  no.  There 
I  left  him  waiting  for  his  next  cue,  but  I  had  not  gone 
far  before  renewed  roars  of  applause  from  the  house 
told  me  Dan  Leno  was  again  on  the  stage.  What 
a   power    to    be   able    to    amuse  thousands  of  people 


I 


FIRST    PANTOMIME    REHEARSAL      217 

every  week,  to  be  able  to  bring  mirth  and  joy  into 
many  a  heart,  to  take  people  out  of  themselves  and 
make  the  saddest  merry — and  Dan  can  do  all  this. 

The  object  of  my  second  visit  was  to  have  a  little 
chat  with  Miss  Madge  Lessing,  the  "  principal  girl," 
who  exclaimed  as  I  entered  her  dressing-room  : 

"  I  spend  eleven  hours  in  the  theatre  every  day 
during  the  run  of  the  pantomime." 

After  that  who  can  say  a  pantomime  part  is  a 
sinecure  ?  Eleven  hours  every  day  dressing,  singing, 
dancing,  acting,  or — more  wearisome  of  all — waiting. 
No  one  unaccustomed  to  the  stage  can  realise  the 
strain  of  such  work,  for  it  is  only  those  who  live 
at  such  high  pressure,  who  always  have  to  be  on  the 
alert  for  the  "  call-boy,"  who  know  what  it  is  to  be 
kept  at  constant  tension  for  so  many  consecutive 
hours. 

Matinee  days  are  bad  enough  in  ordinary  theatres, 
but  the  pantomime  is  a  long  series  of  matinee  days 
extending  over  three  months  or  more.  Of  course 
it  is  not  compulsory  to  stay  in  the  theatre  between 
the  performances  ;  but  it  is  more  tiring,  for  the  leading- 
lady,  to  dress  and  go  out  for  a  meal  than  to  stay  in 
and  have  it  brought  to  the  dressing-room. 

Miss  Lessing  was  particularly  fortunate  in  her  room  ; 
the  best  I  have  ever  seen  in  any  theatre.  Formerly 
it  was  Sir  Augustus  Harris's  office.  It  was  large  and 
lofty,  and  so  near  the  stage — on  a  level  with  which 
it  actually  stood — that  one  could  hear  what  was  going 
on  in  front.  This  was  convenient  in  many  ways, 
although   it  had  its  drawbacks.      Many  of  our  leading 


21 8  BEHIND  THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

theatrical  lights  have  to  traverse  long  flights  of  stairs 
between  every  act  ;  while  Miss  Lessing  was  so  close 
to  the  stage  she  need  not  leave  her  room  until  it  was 
actually  time  to   step  upon   the   boards. 

It  was  a  matinee  when  the  pantomime  was  in  full 
swing  that  I  bearded  the  lion  in  her  den,  and  a  pretty, 
dainty  little  lion  I  found  her.  It  was  a  perilous 
journey  to  reach  her  room,  but  I  bravely  followed  the 
"dresser"  from  the  stage  door.  We  passed  a 
lilliputian  pony  about  the  size  of  a  St.  Bernard  dog, 
we  bobbed  under  the  heads  and  tails  of  horses  so 
closely  packed  together  there  was  barely  room  for  us 
to  get  between.  The  huntsmen  were  already  mounted, 
for  they  were  just  going  on,  and  I  marvelled  at  the 
good  behaviour  of  those  steeds  ;  they  must  have 
known  they  could  not  move  without  doing  harm  to 
some  one,  and  so  considerately  remained  still.  We 
squeezed  past  fairies,  our  faces  tickled  by  their 
wings,  our  dresses  caught  by  their  spangles,  so  closely 
packed  was  humanity  "  behind."  There  were  about 
two  hundred  scene-shifters  incessantly  at  work  moving 
"cloths,"  and  "flies,"  and  "drops,"  and  properties  of 
all  kinds.  Miss  Lessing  was  just  coming  off  the  stage, 
dressed  becomingly  in  white  muslin,  with  a  blue  Red 
Riding  Hood  cape  and  poppy-trimmed  straw  hat. 

"  Come  along,"  she  said,  "  this  is  my  room,  and  it 
is  fairly  quiet  here."  The  first  things  that  strike 
a  stranger  are  Miss  Lessing's  wonderful  grey  Irish 
eyes  and  her  American  accent. 

"  Both  are  correct,"  she  laughed.  "  I'm  Irish  by 
extraction,  although    born  in  London,  and  I've  lived 


FIRST   PANTOMIME   REHEARSAL      219 

in  America  since  I  was  fourteen  ;  so  you  see  there 
is  ground  for  both  your  surmises." 

Miss  Lessing  is  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  was  educated 
at  the  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart  at  Battersea. 

"  1  always  wanted  to  go  on  the  stage  as  long  as 
ever  I  can  remember,  she  told  me,  "  and  I  positively 
ran  away  from  home  and  went  over  to  America, 
where  I  had  a  fairly  hard  time  of  it.  By  good  luck 
I  managed  to  get  an  engagement  in  a  chorus,  and 
it  chanced  that  two  weeks  later  one  of  the  better  parts 
fell  vacant  owing  to  a  girl's  illness,  and  I  got  it — and 
was  fortunate  enough  to  keep  it,  as  she  was  unable  to 
return,  and  the  management  were  satisfied  with  me. 
I  had  to  work  very  hard,  had  to  take  anything  and 
everything  offered  to  me  for  years.  Had  to  do  my 
work  at  night  and  improve  my  singing  and  dancing 
by  day  ;  but  nothing  is  accomplished  without  hard 
work,  is  it  ?  And  I  am  glad  I  went  through  the 
grind  because  it  has  brought  me  a  certain  amount 
of  reward." 

One  had  only  to  look  at  Miss  Lessing  to  know 
she  is  not  easily  daunted  ;  those  merry  eyes  and 
dimpled  cheeks  do  not  detract  from  the  firmness  of 
the  mouth  and  the  expression  of  determination  round 
the  laughing  lips.  There  was  something  particularly 
dainty  about  the  "  principal  girl "  at  Drury  Lane, 
and  a  sense  of  refinement  and  grace  one  does  not 
always  associate  with  pantomime. 

*'  Why,  yes,"  she  afterwards  added,  "  I  played  all 
over  the  States,  and  after  nine  years  was  engaged  by 
Mr.  Arthur  Collins  to  return  to  London  and  appear 


220  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

in  the  pantomime  of  The  Sleeping  Beauty.  Of  course, 
I  felt  quite  at  home  in  London,  although  I  must  own 
I  nearly  died  of  fright  the  first  time  I  played  before 
an  English  audience.  It  seemed  like  beginning  the 
whole  thing  over  again.  Londoners  are  more  exacting 
than  their  American  cousins  ;  but  I  must  confess, 
when  they  like  a  piece,  or  an  artist,  they  are  most 
lavish  in  their  applause  and  approbation." 

It  was  cold,  and  Miss  Lessing  pulled  a  warm  shawl 
over  her  shoulders  and  poked  the  fire.  It  can  be  cold 
even  in  such  a  comfortable  dressing-room,  with  the 
luxury  of  a  fire,  for  the  draughts  outside,  either  on  the 
stage  or  round  it,  in  such  a  large  theatre  are  incredible 
to  an  ordinary  mind.  Frequenters  of  the  stalls  know 
the  chilly  blast  that  blows  upon  them  when  the  curtain 
rises,  so  they  may  form  some  slight  idea  of  what  it  is 
like  behind  the  scenes  on  a  cold  night. 

"  After  the  performance  I  take  off  my  make-up 
and  have  my  dinner,"  laughed  Miss  Lessing.  *'  I 
don't  think  I  should  enjoy  my  food  if  all  this  mess 
were  left  on  ;  at  all  events  I  find  it  a  relief  to  cold- 
cream  it  off.  One  gets  a  little  tired  of  dinners  on  a 
tray  for  weeks  at  a  time  when  one  is  not  an  invalid  ; 
but  by  the  time  I've  eaten  mine,  and  had  a  little  rest, 
it  is  the  hour  to  begin  again,  for  the  evening  per- 
formance is  at  hand." 

"  At  all  events,  though,  you  can  read  and  write 
between  whiles,"  I  remarked. 

"  That  is  exactly  what  one  cannot  do.  I  no  sooner 
settle  down  to  a  book  or  letters  than  some  one  wants 
me.      It    is    the   constant    disturbance,    the    everlasting 


FIRST    PANTOMIME    REHEARSAL      221 

interruption,  that  make  two  performances  a  day  so 
trying  ;  but  I  love  the  hfe,  even  if  it  be  hard,  and 
thoroughly  enjoy  my  pantomime  season." 

"  Have  you  had  many  strange  adventures  in  your 
theatrical  life.   Miss   Lessing  ?  " 

"  None  :  mine  has  been  a  placid  existence  on  the 
whole,  for,"  she  added,  laughing,  "  I  have  not  even 
lost  diamonds  or  husbands  !  " 


CHAPTER    XII 

S/J^   HENRY  IRVING  AND  STAGE  IIGHTING 

Sir  Henry  Irving's  Position — Miss  Genevieve  Ward's  Dress — Reforma- 
tions in  Lighting — The  most  Costly  Play  ever  Produced — Strong 
Individuality — Character  Parts — Irving  earned  his  Living  at 
Thirteen — Actors  and  Applause — A  Pathetic  Story — No  Shake- 
speare Traditions — Imitation  is  not  Acting — Irving's  Appearance — 
His  Generosity — The  First  Night  of  Danie— First  night  of  Faust — 
Two  Terriss  Stories — Sir  Charles  Wyndham. 

HENRY  IRVING  is  a  name  which  ought  to 
be  revered  for  ever  in  stageland.  He  has 
done  more  for  the  drama  than  any  other  actor  in  any 
other  country.  He  has  tactfully  and  gracefully  made 
speeches  that  have  commanded  respect.  He  has 
ennobled   his  profession   in   many  ways. 

As  Sir  Squire  Bancroft  was  the  pioneer  of  *'  small 
decorations,"  so  Sir  Henry  Irving  has  been  the  pioneer 
of  "large  details."  Artistic  effect  and  magnificent 
stage  pictures  have  been  his  cult  ;  but  nothing  is  too 
insignificant  for  his  notice. 

Miss  Genevieve  Ward  told  me  that  in  the  play  of 
Becket  a  superb  costume  was  ordered  for  her.  It 
cost  fifty  or  sixty  guineas,  but  when  she  tried  it  on 
she  felt  the  result  was  disappointing.  A  little  unhappy 
about  the  matter  she  descended  to  the  stage. 


\ 


IRVING   AND   STAGE   LIGHTING       223 

*'  Great  Heavens,  Miss  Ward  !  what  have  you  got 
on  ?  "  exclaimed  the  actor  manager. 

"  My  new  dress,  sire,  may  it  please  you  well," 
was  the  meek  reply,  accompanied  by  a  mock 
curtsey. 

"  You  look  a  cross  between  a  Newhaven  fish-wife 
and  a  balloon,"  he  laughed  ;  "  that  will  never  do. 
It  is  most  unbecoming.  As  we  cannot  make  you 
thinner  to  suit  the  dress,  we  must  try  and  make  the 
dress  thinner  to  suit  you." 

They  chaffed  and  laughed  ;  but  finally  it  was  decided 
alterations  would  spoil  the  costume — which  in  its  way 
was  faultless — so  without  any  hesitation  Henry  Irving 
relegated  it  to  a  "  small-part  lady,"  and  ordered  a  new 
dress  for  Miss  Ward. 

Perhaps  the  greatest  reform  this  actor  ever  effected 
was  in  the  matter  of  stage  lighting.  No  one  previously 
paid  any  particular  attention  to  this  subject,  a  red 
glass  or  a  blue  one  achieved  all  that  was  thought 
necessary,  until  he  realised  the  wonderful  effects  that 
might  be  produced  by  properly  thrown  lights,  and 
made  a  study  of  the  subject. 

It  was  Henry  Irving  who  first  started  the  idea  of 
changing  the  scenes  in  darkness,  a  custom  now  so 
general,  not  only  in  Britain  but  abroad.  He  first 
employed  varied  coloured  lights,  and  laid  stress  on 
illumination  generally.  It  was  he  who  first  plunged 
the  auditorium  into  darkness  to  heighten  the  stage 
effects. 

"  Stage  lighting  and  grouping,"  said  Irving  on  one 
occasion,  "  are  of  more  consequence  than  the  scenery. 


224  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Without  descending  to  minute  realism,  the  nearer 
one  approaches  to  the  truth  the  better.  The  most 
elaborate  scenery  I  ever  had  was  for  Romeo  and  Juliet^ 
but  as  I  was  not  the  man  to  play  Romeo  the  scenery 
could  not  make  it  a  success.  It  never  does — it  only 
helps  the  actor.  The  whole  secret  of  successful 
stage  management  is  thoroughness  and  attention  to 
detail." 

To  Sir  Henry  Irving  is  also  due  the  honour  of 
first  employing  high-class  artists  to  design  dresses, 
eminent  musicians  to  compose  music  which  he 
lavishly  introduced.  It  is  said  that  his  production  of 
Henry  VIII. ^  a  sumptuous  play,  cost  ^16,000  to 
mount,  but  all  his  great  costume  plays  have  cost 
from  ^3,000  to  ^10,000  each. 

Sir  Henry  Irving  is  famous  for  his  speeches.  Few 
persons  know  he  reads  every  word  of  them.  Carefully 
thought  out — for  he  wisely  never  speaks  at  random — and 
type-written,  his  MS.  lies  open  before  him,  and  being 
quite  accustomed  to  address  an  audience,  he  quietly, 
calmly,  deliberately  reads  it  off  with  dramatic  declama- 
tion. His  voice  has  been  a  subject  of  comment  by 
many.  That  characteristic  intonation  so  well  known 
upon  the  stage  is  never  heard  in  private  life,  and 
even  in  reading  a  speech   is  little  noticeable. 

If  there  ever  was  a  case  of  striking  individuality  on 
the  stage  it  is  surely  to  be  found  in  Henry  Irving. 
People  often  ask  if  it  is  a  good  thing  for  the  exponents 
of  the  dramatic  profession  to  possess  a  strong  person- 
ality. It  is  often  voiced  that  it  is  bad  for  a  part  to 
have  the  prominent  characteristics  of  the  actor  notice- 


Photo  by  ll'tnikiw  c.-'  Grove,  Baker  Street,  //'. 

SIR   HENRY    IRVING. 


IRVING   AND    STAGE    LIGHTING       225 

able,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  there  is  no  doubt  about 
it,  it  is  the  men  and  women  of  marked  character  who 
are  successful  upon  the  stage.  They  may  possess 
great  capability  for  "  make-up,"  they  may  entirely 
alter  their  appearance,  they  may  throw  themselves 
into  the  part  they  are  playing  ;  but  tricks  of  manner, 
intonations  of  voice,  and  peculiarities  of  gesture  appear 
again  and  again,  and  very  often  it  is  this  particular 
personality  that  the  public  likes  best. 

In  olden  days  it  was  the  fashion — if  we  may  judge 
from  last  century  books — to  speak  clearly  and  to 
"  rant  "  when  excited  ;  in  modern  days  it  is  the  fashion 
to  speak  indistinctly,  and  play  with  "  reserved  force." 
The  drama  has  its  fancies  and  its  fashions  like  our 
dresses  or  our  hats. 

No  man  upon  the  stage  has  gone  through  a  more 
severe  mill  than  Sir  Henry  Irving.  Forty-six  years  ago 
he  was  working  in  the  provinces  at  a  trifling  salary 
on  which  he  had  to  live.  Board,  lodging,  washing, 
clothes,  even  some  of  his  stage  costumes,  had  to  come 
out  of  that  guinea  a  week.  The  success  he  has 
attained  has  been  arrived  at — in  addition  to  his  genius 
and  ability — by  sheer  hard  work  and  conscientious 
attempts  to  do  his  best,  consequently  at  the  age  of 
sixty-five  he  was  able  to  fill  a  vast  theatre  like 
Drury  Lane  when  playing  in  such  a  trying  part  as 
Dante. 

The  first  years  of  the  actor's  life  were  spent  at 
an  office  desk.  He  began  to  earn  his  own  living  as 
a  clerk  at  thirteen  ;  but  during  that  time  he  memorised 
and  studied  various  plays.     He  learnt  fencing,  and  at 

15 


226  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

the  age  of  nineteen,  when  he  first  took  to  the  stage, 
he  was  well  equipped  for   his  new  profession. 

For  ten  years  he  made  little  headway,  however, 
and  first  came  into  notice  as  a  comedian.  In  his 
early  days  every  one  thought  Irving  ought  to  play 
"  character  parts." 

"  What  that  phrase  means,"  he  remarked  later,  "  I 
never  could  understand,  for  I  have  a  prejudice  in 
the  belief  that  every  part  should  be  a  character.  I 
always  wanted  to  play  the  higher  drama.  Even  in 
my  boyhood  my  desire  had  been  in  that  direction. 
When  at  the  Vaudeville  Theatre,  I  recited  Eugene 
Aram,  simply  to  get  an  idea  as  to  whether  I  could 
impress  an  audience  with  a  tragic  theme.  In  my 
youth  I  was  associated  in  the  public  mind  with  all 
sorts  of  bad  characters,  housebreakers,  blacklegs, 
thieves,  and  assassins." 

And  this  was  the  man  who  was  to  popularise 
Shakespeare  on  the  modern  English  stage — the  man 
to  show  the  world  that  Shakespeare  spelt  Fame  and 
Success. 

That  acting  is  a  fatiguing  art  Irving  denies.  He 
once  played  Hamlet  over  two  hundred  nights  in  suc- 
cession, and  yet  the  Dane  takes  more  out  of  him  than 
any  of  his  characters.  Hamlet  is  the  one  he  loves 
best,  however,  just  as  Ellen  Terry's  favourite  part 
is  Portia. 

In  Percy  Fitzgerald's  dehghtful  Life  of  Henry  Irving 
we  find  the  following  interesting  and  characteristic  little 
story  : 

"  Perhaps  the  most   remarkable  Christmas  dinner  at 


IRVING   AND   STAGE   LIGHTING       227 

which  I  have  ever  been  present,  was  one  at  which  we 
dined  upon  underclothing.  Do  you  remember  Joe 
Robins — a  nice,  genial  fellow  who  played  small  parts 
in  the  provinces  ?  Ah,  no  !  that  was  before  your 
time.  Joe  Robins  was  once  in  the  gentleman's  furnish- 
ing business  in  London  city.  I  think  he  had  a  whole- 
sale trade,  and  was  doing  well.  However,  he  belonged 
to  one  of  the  semi-Bohemian  clubs  ;  associated  a  great 
deal  with  actors  and  journalists,  and  when  an  amateur 
performance  was  organised  for  some  charitable  object, 
he  was  cast  for  the  clown  in  a  burlesque  called  Guy 
Fawkes. 

"  Perhaps  he  played  the  part  capitally  ;  perhaps 
his  friends  were  making  game  of  him  when  they  loaded 
him  with  praise  ;  perhaps  the  papers  for  which  his 
Bohemian  associates  wrote  went  rather  too  far  when 
they  asserted  that  he  was  the  artistic  descendant  and 
successor  of  Grimaldi.  At  any  rate  Joe  believed 
all  that  was  said  to  and  written  about  him,  and 
when  some  wit  discovered  that  Grimaldi's  name  was 
also  Joe,  the  fate  of  Joe  Robins  was  sealed.  He 
determined  to  go  upon  the  stage  professionally  and 
become  a  great  actor.  Fortunately  Joe  was  able  to 
dispose  of  his  stock  and  goodwill  for  a  few  hundreds, 
which  he  invested,  so  as  to  give  him  an  income 
sufficient  to  prevent  the  wolf  from  getting  inside  his 
door,  in  case  he  did  not  eclipse  Garrick,  Kean,  and 
Kemble.  He  also  packed  up  for  himself  a  liberal 
supply  of  his  wares,  and  started  in  his  profession 
with  enough  shirts,  collars,  handkerchiefs,  and  under- 
clothing to    equip   him  for   several   years. 


228  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

"  The  amateur  success  of  poor  Joe  was  never  re- 
peated on  the  regular  stage.  He  did  not  make  an 
absolute  failure  ;  no  manager  would  trust  him  with 
big  enough  parts  for  him  to  fail  in  ;  but  he  drifted 
down  to  "  general  utility/'  and  then  out  of  London, 
and  when  I  met  him  he  was  engaged  in  a  very 
small  way,  on  a  very  small  salary,  at  a  Manchester 
theatre. 

"  His  income  eked  out  his  salary  ;  Joe,  however, 
was  a  generous,  great-hearted  fellow,  who  liked  every- 
body, and  whom  everybody  liked,  and  when  he  had 
money,  he  was  always  glad  to  spend  it  upon  a  friend 
or  give  it  away  to  somebody  more  needy  than  him- 
self. So  piece  by  piece,  as  necessity  demanded,  his 
princely  supply  of  haberdashery  diminished,  and  at 
last  only  a  few  shirts  and  underclothes  remained 
to  him. 

"  Christmas  came  in  very  bitter  weather.  Joe  had 
a  part  in  the  Christmas  pantomime.  He  dressed 
with  other  poor  actors,  and  he  saw  how  thinly  some 
of  them  were  clad  when  they  stripped  before  him 
to  put  on  their  stage  costumes.  For  one  poor  fellow 
in  especial  his  heart  ached.  In  the  depth  of  a  very 
cold  winter  he  was  shivering  in  a  suit  of  very  light 
summer  underclothing,  and  whenever  Joe  looked  at 
him,  the  warm  flannel  under-garments  snugly  packed 
away  in  an  extra  trunk  weighed  heavily  on  his  mind. 
Joe  thought  the  matter  over,  and  determined  to  give 
the  actors  who  dressed  with  him  a  Christmas  dinner. 
It  was  literally  a  dinner  upon  underclothing,  for  most 
of  the   shirts   and  drawers    which    Joe    had  cherished 


IRVING   AND   STAGE    LIGHTING       229 

so  long  went  to  the  pawnbrokers,  or  the  slop-shop 
to  provide  the  money  for  the  meal.  The  guests 
assembled  promptly,  for  nobody  else  is  ever  so  hungry 
as  a  hungry  actor.  The  dinner  was  to  be  served  at 
Joe's  lodgings,  and  before  it  was  placed  on  the  table, 
Joe  beckoned  his  friend  with  the  gauze  underclothing 
into  a  bedroom,  and  pointing  to  a  chair,  silently  with- 
drew. On  that  chair  hung  a  suit  of  underwear,  which 
had  been  Joe's  pride.  It  was  of  a  comfortable  scarlet 
colour  ;  it  was  thick,  warm,  and  heavy  ;  it  fitted  the 
poor  actor  as  if  it  had  been  manufactured  especially 
to  his  measure.  He  put  it  on,  and  as  the  flaming 
flannels  encased  his  limbs,  he  felt  his  heart  glowing 
within  him  with  gratitude  to  dear  Joe  Robins. 

"That  actor  never  knew — or,  if  he  knew,  could 
never  remember — what  he  had  for  dinner  on  that 
Christmas  afternoon.  He  revelled  in  the  luxury  of 
warm  garments.  The  roast  beef  was  nothing  to  him 
in  comparison  with  the  comfort  of  his  under-vest  : 
he  appreciated  the  drawers  more  than  the  plum- 
pudding.  Proud,  happy,  warm,  and  comfortable,  he 
felt  little  inclination  to  eat  ;  but  sat  quietly,  and 
thanked  Providence  and  Joe  Robins  with  all  his 
heart. 

"  *  You  seem  to  enter  into  that  poor  actor's  feelings 
very  spmpathetically.' 

*' '  I  have  good  reason  to  do  so,'  replied  Mr. 
Irving,  with  his  sunshiny  smile,  ''for  I  was  that  poor 
actor  ! 

Irving,  like  most  theatrical  folk,  has  a  weakness  for 
applause.       It    is    not    surprising    that    hand-clapping 


230  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

should  have  an  exhilarating  effect,  or  that  the  volley  of 
air  vibrations  should  set  the  actor's  blood  a-tingling. 
Applause  is  the  breath  in  the  nostrils  of  every 
'*  mummer."  On  one  occasion  the  great  Kean  find- 
ing his  audience  apathetic,  stopped  in  the  middle  of 
his  lines  and  said  : 

"  Gentlemen,  I  can't  act  if  you  can't  applaud." 

There  is  no  doubt  about  it,  a  sympathetic  audience 
gets  far  more  out  of  the  actor  than  a  half-hearted 
apathetic  one. 

"  The  true  value  of  art,"  once  said  Henry  Irving, 
"  as  applied  to  the  drama  can  only  be  determined  by 
public  appreciation.  It  is  in  this  spirit  that  I  have 
invariably  made  it  my  study  to  present  every  piece 
in  such  a  way  that  the  public  can  rely  on  getting  as 
full  a  return  for  their  outlay  as  it  is  possible  to  give. 
I  have  great  faith  in  the  justice  of  public  discrimina- 
tion, just  as  I  regard  the  pit  audience  of  a  London 
theatre  as  the  most  critical  part  of  the  house. 

"  Art  must  advance  with  the  time,  and  with  the 
advance  of  other  arts  there  must  necessarily  be  advance 
in  art  as  applied  to  the  stage.  I  believe  everything 
that  heightens  and  assists  the  imagination  in  a  play 
is  good.  One  should  always  give  the  best  one 
can.  I  have  lived  long  enough  to  find  how  short 
is  life  and  how  long  is  art,"  he  once  pithily 
remarked. 

"  Have  you  been  guided  by  tradition  in  mounting 
Shakespearian  plays.?" 

"  There  is  no  tradition,  nor  is  there  anything  written 
down  as    to    the  proper  way  of  acting  Shakespeare," 


IRVING   AND   STAGE    LIGHTING       231 

the  great  actor  replied,  and  further  added  :  "  Imita- 
tion is  not  acting — there  is  no  true  acting  where 
individuality  does  not  exist.  Actors  should  act  for 
themselves.  I  dislike  playing  a  part  I  have  seen 
acted  by  any  one  else,  for  fear  of  losing  something 
of  my  own  reading  of  the  character.  We  all  have 
our  own  mannerisms  ;  I  never  yet  saw  any  human 
being  worth  considering  without  them." 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Irving's  personality  is 
strong  and  his  appearance  striking.  He  is  a  tall 
man — for  I  suppose  he  is  about  six  feet  high — thin 
and  well  knit,  with  curiously  dark  and  penetrating 
eyes  which  are  kindly,  and  have  a  merry  twinkle  when 
amused.  The  eyebrows  are  shaggy  and  protruding, 
and,  oddly  enough,  remained  black  after  his  hair 
turned  grey.  He  almost  always  wears  eyeglasses, 
which  somehow  suit  him  as  they  rest  comfortably  on 
his  aquiline  nose.  His  features  are  clear-cut  and 
clean-shaven,  and  the  heavy  jaw  and  slightly  under- 
hanging  chin  give  strength  to  his  face,  which  is  always 
pale ;  the  lips  are  thin  and  strangely  pallid  in  colour- 
ing. Irving,  though  nearing  seventy,  has  a  wonderfully 
erect  carriage,  his  shoulders  are  well  thrust  back  and 
his  chest  forward,  and  somehow  his  movements 
always  denote  a  man  of  strength  and  character.  The 
very  dark  hair  gradually  turned  grey  and  is  now 
almost  white  ;  it  was  fine  hair,  and  has  always 
been  worn  long  and  thrown  well  back  behind  the 
ears. 

There  is  something  about  the  man  which  immediately 
arrests  attention ;  not  only  his  face  and  his  carriage,  but 


232  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

his  manner  and  conversation  are  different  from  the 
ordinary.  He  is  the  kind  of  man  that  any  one  meeting 
for  the  first  time  would  wish  to  know  more  about, 
the  kind  of  man  of  whom  every  one  would  inquire, 
*'■  Who  is  he  ?  "  if  his  face  were  not  so  well  known 
in  the  illustrated  papers.  He  could  not  pass  un- 
noticed anywhere.  But  after  all  it  is  not  this 
personality  entirely  that  has  made  his  fame,  for  there 
are  people  who  dislike  it  as  much  as  others  admire 
it  ;  but  as  he  himself  says,  any  success  he  has  attained 
is  due  to  the  capacity  for  taking  pains. 

That  Irving's  success  has  been  great  no  one  can 
deny.  His  reign  at  the  Lyceum  was  remarkable  in 
every  way.  He  acted  Shakespeare's  plays  until  he 
made  them  the  fashion.  He  employed  great  artists, 
musicians,  and  a  host  of  smaller  fry  to  give  him  of 
their  best.  He  produced  wondrous  stage  pictures — 
he  engaged  a  good  company,  and  one  and  all  must 
own  he  was  the  greatest  actor-manager  of  the  last 
quarter  of  the  last  century.  Not  only  England  but  the 
world  at  large  owes  him  a  debt  of  gratitude.  With 
him  mere  money-making  has  been  a  secondary  con- 
sideration, and  this,  coupled  with  his  unfailing 
generosity,  has  always  kept  him  comparatively  a  poor 
man.  No  one  in  distress  has  ever  appealed  to  him 
in  vain.  He  has  not  only  given  money,  but  time 
and  sympathy,  to  those  less  fortunate  than  himself, 
and  Henry  Irving's  list  of  charitable  deeds  is  endless. 
But  for  this  he  would  never  have  had  to  leave  the 
Lyceum,  a  theatre  with  which  his  name  was  associated 
for  so  many  years. 


IRVING   AND    STAGE   LIGHTING       233 

"When  Irving  opened  Drury  Lane  at  Easter,  1903, 
with  Dante  he  had  an  ovation  such  as  probably 
no  man  has  ever  received  from  an  audience  before. 
It  was  a  pouring  wet  night  ;  the  rain  descended  in 
torrents,  but  the  faithful  pittites  were  there  to  welcome 
the  popular  favourite  on  his  return  from  America.  It 
so  chanced  that  the  audience  were  entering  the  Opera 
House  next  door  at  the  same  moment,  and  this,  com- 
bined with  the  rain,  which  did  not  allow  people  to 
descend  from  their  carriages  before  they  reached  the 
theatre  doors,  made  the  traffic  chaotic.  I  only  managed 
to  reach  my  stall  a  second  before  the  house  was  plunged 
in  darkness  and  the  curtain  rose. 

And  here  let  me  say  how  much  more  agreeable  it 
is  to  watch  the  play  from  a  darkened  auditorium  such 
as  Irving  originally  instituted  than  to  sit  in  the  glaring 
illumination  still  prevalent  abroad.  When  the  lights 
went  down,  the  doors  were  closed,  and  half  the  carriage 
folk  were  shut  out  for  the  entire  first  act,  thus  missing 
that  wondrous  ovation.  The  great  actor  looked 
the  very  impersonation  of  Dante,  and  as  he  bowed, 
and  bowed,  and  bowed  again  he  grew  more  and  more 
nervous,  to  judge  by  the  tremble  of  his  lips  and  the 
twitching  of  his  hands.  It  was  indeed  a  stirring 
moment  and  a  proud  one  for  the  recipient.  As  the 
play  proceeded  the  audience  found  all  his  old  art  was 
there  and  the  magnificent  mise-en-scene  combined  to 
keep  up  the  traditions  of  the  old  Lyceum.  That  vast 
audience  at  Drury  Lane  rose  en  masse  to  greet  him, 
and  literally  thundered  their  applause  at  the  end  of 
the  play.     The  programme  is  on  the  following  page. 


234  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

APRIL  zoth,   1903. 


Theatre  Royal 


Drury   Lane, 


LIMITED. 

Managing  Director        ...        ARTHUR   COLLINS. 

Business  Manager SIDNEY  SMITH. 

HENRY  IRVING'S  SEASON. 

Every  Evening,  at  8.15. 

Matinee  Every  Saturday,  at  2.30. 

^    DANTE    ^ 


MM.    SARDOU    &    MOREAU. 

Kendered  into  English  by  LAURENCE    IRVING. 


Ipersons  in  tbe  JMag: 


Bernardino  i 


Friends  to  Dante 


Dante    ... 

_     ,.     ,  -,  ,  ( Papal  Legate,  Residents 

Cardinal  Colonna  \  ,    .    ■  \ 

\.  at  Avignon.  J 

Nello  della  Pietra  (^Husband  to  Pia) 

'Brother  to  Francesca  da  Rimini,  \ 

betrothed  to  Gemma  / 

Giotto 

Caselia 

Forese 

Bellacqua 

Malatesta  (^Husband to  Francesca)    ... 

Corso  (^Nephew  to  Cardinal  Colonna) 

Ostasio  i^A  Familiar  of  the  Inquisition) 

Ruggieri  {A  rchbishop  of  Pisa) 

The  Grand  Inquisitor 

Paolcj  (^Brother  to  Malatesta) 

Ugolino 

Lippo 

Conrad 


Swashbucklers 


Henry  Irving 

Mr.  William  Mollison 

Mr.  Norman  McKinnel 

Mr.  Gerald  Lawrence 

Mr.  H.  B.  Stanford 

Mr.  James  Hearn 

Mr.  Vincent  Sternroyd 

Mr.  G.  Englethorpe 

Mr.  Jerold  Robertshaw 

Mr.  Charles  Dodsworth 

Mr.  Frank  Tyars 

Mr.  William  Lugo 

Mr.  William  Farren,  Junr. 

Mr.  L.  Race  Dunrobin 

Mr.  Mark  Paton 

Mr.  John  Archer 

Mr.  W.  L.  Ablett 


IRVING   AND    STAGE   LIGHTING       235 


Enzio  (^Brother  to  Helen  of  Swabid) 

Fadrico 

Merchant 

Merchant 

Townsman 

Townsman 

A  Servant 

Pia  dei  Tolomei  ( Wife  to  Nello  della  Pietra)  \ 

Gemma  {Her  Daughter)  i 

The  Abbess  of  the  Convent  of  Saint  Claire 

Francesca  da  Rimini  ... 


Helen  of  Swabia 


»{ 


Daughter-  in  ■  law 
to  U^olino 


Sandra  {Servant  to  Pia) 

Picarda         \ 

Tessa 

Marozia  I         Florentine 

Cilia  I  Ladies 

Lucrezia 

Julia 

Fidelia  ... 

Maria 

Nun       

Nun       

Custodian  of  the  Convent  of  Saint  Claire 
A  Townswoman 


Mr.  F.  D.  Daviss 
Mr.  H.  Porter 
Mr.  R.  P.  Tabb 
Mr.  H.  Gaston 
Mr.  T.  Reynold 
Mr.  A.  Fisher 
M.  J.  Ireland 

Miss  Lena  Ashwell 

Miss  Wallts 

Miss  Lilian  Eldee 

Miss  Laura  Burt 

Miss  Ada  Mellon 
Miss  E.  Burnand 
Miss  Hilda  Austin 
Miss  Mab  Paul 
Miss  Ada  Potter 
Miss  E.  Lockett 
Miss  Mary  Foster 
Miss  Dorothy  Rowe 
Miss  May  Holland 
Miss  Emmeline  Carder 
Miss  E.  F.  Davis 
Miss  Grace  Hampton 
Miss  Mabel  Rees 


Nobles,  Guests  of  the  Legate,  Pages,  Jesters,  Nuns,  Townsfolk,  Artisans, 
Street  Urchins,  Catalans,  Barbantincs,  Servants,  etc. 


Spirits : 

The  Spirit  of  Beatrice 

Virgil 

Cain 

Charon  ... 

Cardinal  Boccasini 

Cardinal  Orsini 

Jacques  Molay  {Co/ninander  of  the  Templars) 


Miss  Nora  Lancaster 
Mr.  Walter  Reynolds 
Mr.  F.  Murray 
Mr.  Leslie  Palmer 
Mr.  F.  Faydene 
Mr.  W.  J.  Yeldham 
Mr.  J.  Middleton 


Spirits  in  the  Inferno. 


Sir  Henry  Irving  certainly  has  great  magnetic  gifts 
which  attract  and  compel  the  sympathy  of  his  audi- 
ence. He  always  looks  picturesque,  he  avoids  stage 
conventionalities,  and   acts    his   part    according  to   his 


236  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

own  scholarly  instincts.  Passion  with  him  is  sub- 
servient to  intellect. 

One  American  critic  in  summing  him  up  said  : 

"  I  do  not  consider  Irving  a  great  actor  ;  but  he 
is  the  greatest  dramatic  artist  I  ever  saw." 

The  version  of  Faust  by  the  late  W.  G.  Wills  which 
modern  playgoers  know  so  well  was  one  of  the  most 
elaborate  and  successful  productions  of  the  Lyceum 
days,  and  amongst  the  beautiful  scenic  effects  some 
exquisite  visions  which  appeared  in  the  Prologue  at  the 
summons  of  Mephistopheles  will  always  be  remembered. 
On  the  first  night  of  the  production  I  am  told — for  I 
don't  remember  the  occasion  myself — owing  to  a 
temporary  break  down  in  the  lime-lights,  these  visions 
declined  to  put  in  an  appearance  at  the  bidding  of  the 
Fiend.  The  great  actor  waved  his  arm  and  stamped 
his  foot  with  no  result.  Again  and  again  he  tried 
to  rouse  them  from  their  lethargy,  but  all  to  no  avail. 
The  visions  came  not.  As  soon  as  the  curtain  fell 
Irving  strode  angrily  to  the  wing,  even  his  stride  fore- 
boded ill  to  all  concerned,  and  the  officials  trembled  at 
the  outburst  of  righteous  wrath  which  they  expected 
would  break  forth.  The  first  exclamations  of  the  irate 
manager  had  hardly  left  his  lips  before  they  were 
interrupted  by  a  diminutive  "  call  boy,"  who  rushed 
forward  with  uplifted  hand,  and  exclaimed  in  a  high 
treble  key  to  the  great  actor-manager  fresh  from  his 
newest  triumph  : 

"  Bear  it,  bear  it  bravely  !  /  will  explain  all  to- 
morrow !" 

The  situation  was  so  ridiculous  that  there  was  a  general 


IRVING  AND   STAGE   LIGHTING       237 

peal  of  laughter,  in  which  Irving  was  irresistibly  com- 
pelled to  join. 

The  last  part  played  at  the  Lyceum  by  the  veteran 
actor  Tom  Mead  was  that  of  the  old  witch  who  vainly 
strove  to  gain  the  summit  of  the  Brocken,  and  was 
always  pushed  downwards  when  just  reaching  the  goal. 
In  despair  the  wretched  hag  exclaims,  "  I've  been  a 
toiler  for  ten  thousand  years,  but  never,  never  reached 
the  top."  On  the  first  night  of  Fausl,  the  worthy  old 
man  was  chaffed  unmercifully  at  supper  by  some  of  his 
histrionic  friends  who  insisted  that  the  words  he  used 
were,  "  I've  been  an  actor  for  ten  thousand  years,  but 
never,  never  reached  the  top." 

Those  who  saw  the  wonderful  production  of  The 
Corsican  'Brothers  at  the  Lyceum  will  remember  the 
exciting  duel  in  the  snow  by  moonlight,  between 
Irving  and  Terriss.  At  the  last  dress  rehearsal,  which 
at  the  Lyceum  was  almost  as  important  a  function 
as  a  first  night,  Terriss  noticed  that  as  the  combatants 
moved  hither  and  thither  during  the  fight  he  seemed 
to  be  usually  in  shadow,  while  the  face  of  the  great 
actor-manager  was  brilliantly  illuminated.  Looking 
up  into  the  flies,  he  thus  addressed  the  lime-light 
man  : 

"  On  me  also  shine  forth,  thou  beauteous  moon — 
there  should  be  no  partiality  in  thy  glorious  beams." 

A  friend  relates  another  curious  little  incident  which 
occurred  during  the  run  of  Ravenswood  at  the  Lyceum. 
In  the  last  act  there  was  another  duel  between  William 
Terriss  and  Henry  Irving.  For  the  play  Terriss  wore 
a  heavy  moustache  which  was  cleverly  contrived  in  two 


238  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

pieces.  Somehow,  in  the  midst  of  the  scuffle,  one  side 
of  the  moustache  got  caught  and  came  off.  This  was  an 
awkward  predicament  at  a  tragic  moment,  but  Terriss 
had  the  presence  of  mind  to  swerve  round  before  the 
audience  had  time  to  realise  the  absurdity,  and  finished 
the  scene  with  his  hair-covered  lips  on  show.  When 
they  arrived  in  the  wings  Irving  was  greatly  perturbed. 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  spoiling  the  act  by 
jumping  round  like  that  ? "  he  demanded.  "  You  put 
me  out  horribly  :  it  altered  the  whole  scene." 

Terriss  was  convulsed  with  laughter  and  could 
hardly  answer  ;  and  it  was  only  when  Irving  had 
spent  his  indignation  that  he  discovered  his  friend 
was  minus  half  his  moustache.  This  shows  how 
intensely  interested  actors  become  in  their  parts,  when 
one  can  go  through  a  long  scene  and  never  notice 
his  colleague  had  lost  so  important  an  adjunct. 

Sir  Charles  Wyndham  is  one  of  the  most  popular 
actor-managers  upon  the  stage.  He  is  a  flourishing 
evergreen.  Though  born  in  1841  he  never  seems  to 
grow  any  older,  and  is  just  as  full  of  dry  humour, 
just  as  able  to  deliver  a  dramatic  sermon,  just  as  quick 
and  smart  as  ever  he  was. 

He  began  at  the  very  beginning,  did  Sir  Charles, 
and  he  is  ending  at  the  very  end.  Though  origin- 
ally intended  for  the  medical  profession,  he  com- 
menced his  career  as  a  stock  actor  in  a  provincial 
company,  is  now  a  knight,  and  manager  and  promoter 
of  several  theatres.  What  more  could  theatrical 
heart  desire  ^  And  he  has  the  distinction  of  having 
acted  in  Berlin  in  the  German  tongue. 


IRVING   AND   STAGE   LIGHTING       239 

Wyndham  gives  an  amusing  description,  it  is  said, 
of  one  of  his  first  appearances  on  the  American  stage, 
when  he  had  determined  to  transfer  his  affections 
from  Galen  to  Thespis.  He  was  naturally  extremely 
nervous,  and  on  his  first  entrance  should  have 
exclaimed  : 

"  I  am  drunk  with  ecstasy  and  success." 

With  emphasis  he  said  the  first  three  words  of  the 
sentence,  and  then,  owing  to  uncontrollable  stage 
fright,  his  memory  forsook  him.  After  a  painful  pause 
he  again  exclaimed  : 

"  I  am  drunk."  Even  then,  however,  he  could 
not  recall  the  context.  He  looked  hurriedly  around, 
panic  seemed  to  overpower  him  as  he  once  more 
repeated  : 

"  I  am  drunk — "  ;  and,  amid  a  burst  of  merriment 
from  the  audience,  he  rushed  from  the   stage. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

WHY   A    NOVELIST   BECOMES    A    DRAMATIST 

Novels  and  Plays — Little  Lord  Faiintleroy  and  his  Origin — Mr.  Hall 
Caine — Preference  for  Books  to  Plays-- John  Oliver  Hobbes — 
J.  M.  Barrie's  Diffidence— Anthony  Hope — A  London  Bachelor — 
A  Pretty  Wedding — A  Tidy  Author — A  First  Night — Dramatic 
Critics — How  Notices  are  Written — The  Critics  Criticised — Dis- 
tribution of  Paper — "  Stalls  Full  " — Black  Monday — Do  Royalty 
pay  for  their  Seats  ? — Wild  Pursuit  of  the  Owner  of  the  Royal 
Box — The  Queen  at  the  Opera. 

IT  is  a  surprise  to  the  public  that  so  many  novelists 
are  becoming  dramatists. 

The  reason  is  simple  enough  :  it  is  the  natural 
evolution  of  romance.  In  the  good  old  days  of  three- 
volume  novels,  works  of  fiction  brought  considerable 
grist  to  the  mill  of  both  author  and  publisher  ;  after 
all  it  only  cost  a  fraction  more  to  print  and  bind  a 
three-volume  work  which  sold  at  thirty-one  shillings 
and  sixpence  than  it  does  to-day  to  produce  a  book 
of  almost  as  many  words  at  six  shillings. 

Then  again,  half,  even  a  quarter  of,  a  century  ago 
there  were  not  anything  like  so  many  novelists,  and 
those  who  wrote  had  naturally  less  competition  ;  but 
all  this   is   changed. 

Novels  pour  forth  on  every  side  to-day,  and  money 
does  not  always  pour  in,  in  proportion.     One  of  the 

240 


NOVELIST    AND    DRAMATIST         241 

first  novelists  to  make  a  large  sum  by  a  play  was  Mrs. 
Hodgson  Burnett.  She  wrote  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy 
about  1885,  it  proved  successful,  and  the  book  con- 
tained the  element  of  an  actable  play.  She  dramatised 
the  story,  and  she  has  probably  made  as  many  thou- 
sands of  pounds  by  the  play  as  hundreds  by  the 
book,  in  spite  of  its  enormous  circulation.  I  believe 
I  am  right  in  saying  that  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy  has 
brought  more  money  to  its  originator  than  any  other 
combined  novel  and  play,  and  the  next  most  lucrative 
has  probably  been  J.   M.  Barrie's  Little  Minister. 

Herein  lies  a  moral  lesson.  Both  are  simple  as 
books  and  plays,  and  both  owe  their  success  to  that 
very  simplicity  and  charm.  They  contain  no  problem, 
no  sex  question,  nothing  but  a  little  story  of  human 
life  and  interest,  and  they  have  succeeded  in  English- 
speaking  lands,  and  had  almost  a  wider  influence  than 
the  more  elaborate  physiological  work  and  ideas  of 
Ibsen,   Maeterlinck,  Sudermann,  or  Pinero. 

For  twenty  years  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy  has  stirred 
all  hearts,  both  on  the  stage  and  off,  in  England 
and  America,  adored  by  children  and  loved  by 
grown-ups. 

Being  anxious  to  know  how  the  idea  of  the  play 
came  about,  I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Burnett,  and  below  is 
her  reply  in  a  most  characteristically  modest  letter  : 

"  New  York, 
"  November  2bth,  1902. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Alec-Tweedie, 

"  I    hope    it   is    as    agreeable    as    it   sounds   to 
be    '  a-roaming    in    Spain.'      It  gives    one   dreams    of 

16 


242  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

finding  one's  lost  castles  there.  Concerning  the  play  of 
Fauntleroy  ;  after  the  publication  of  the  book  it  struck 
me  one  day  that  if  a  real  child  could  be  found  who 
could  play  naturally  and  ingenuously  the  leading 
part,  a  very  unique  little  drama  might  be  made  of 
the  story.  I  have  since  found  that  almost  any  child 
can  play  Fauntleroy,  the  reason  being,  I  suppose,  that 
only  child  emotions  are  concerned  in  the  representa- 
tion of  the  character.  At  that  time,  however,  I  did 
not  realise  what  small  persons  could  do,  and  by  way 
of  proving  to  myself  that  it  could — or  could  not — be 
done  with  sufficient  simplicity  and  convincingness, 
I  asked  my  own  little  boy  to  pretend  for  me  that 
he  was  Fauntleroy  making  his  speech  of  thanks  to 
the  tenants  on  his  birthday.  The  little  boy  in 
question  was  the  one  whose  ingenuous  characteristics 
had  suggested  to  me  the  writing  of  the  story,  so  I 
thought  if  it  could  be  done  he  could  do  it.  He 
had,  of  course,  not  been  allowed  to  suspect  that  he 
himself  had  any  personal  connection  with  the  character 
of  Cedric.  He  was  greatly  interested  in  saying  the 
speech  for  me,  and  he  did  it  with  such  delightful 
warm-hearted  naturalness  that  he  removed  my  doubts 
as  to  whether  a  child-actor  could  say  the  lines  without 
any  air  of  sophistication — which  was  of  course  the  point. 
Shortly  afterwards  we  went  to  Italy,  and  in  Florence 
I  began  the  dramatisation.  I  had,  I  think,  about 
completed  the  first  act  when  I  received  news  from 
England  that  a  Mr.  Seebohm  had  made  a  dramatisa- 
tion and  was  producing  it.  I  travelled  to  London 
at  once  and  consulted  my  lawyer,  Mr.  Guadella,  who 


NOVELIST   AND   DRAMATIST         243 

began  a  suit  for  me.  I  felt  very  strongly  on  the 
subject,  not  only  because  I  was  unfairly  treated,  but 
because  it  had  been  the  custom  to  treat  all  writers 
in  like  manner,  and  it  seemed  a  good  idea  to  endeavour 
to  find  a  defence.  I  was  frightened  because  I  could 
not  have  afforded  to  lose  and  pay  costs — but  I  felt 
rather  fierce,  and  made  up  my  mind  to  face  the  risk. 
Fortunately  Mr.  Guadella  won  the  case  for  me.  Mr. 
Seebohm's  version  was  withdrawn  and  mine  produced 
with  success  both  in  England  and  America — and,  in 
fact,  in  various  other  countries.  I  never  know  dates, 
but  I  think  it  was  produced  in  London  in  '88.  It 
has  been  played  ever  since,  and  is  played  for  short 
engagements  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  every  year. 
I  have  not  the  least  idea  how  many  times  it  has  been 
given.  It  is  a  queer  little  dear,  that  story — '  plays  may 
come  and  books  may  go,  but  little  Fauntleroy  stays 
on  for  ever.'  I  am  glad  I  wrote  it — I  always  loved 
it.  I  should  have  loved  it  if  it  had  not  brought 
me  a  penny.  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  very  satisfactory 
as  a  recorder  of  detail  of  a  business  nature.  I 
never  remember  dates  or  figures.  If  we  were  talking 
together  I  should  doubtless  begin  to  recall  incidents. 
It  is  the  stimulating  meanderings  of  conversation 
which  stir  the  pools  of  memory." 

Mrs.  Hodgson  Burnett  may  indeed  be  proud  of  her 
success,  although  she  writes  of  it  in  such  a  simple, 
unaffected  manner.  'Twas  well  for  her  she  faced 
the  lawsuit,  for  ruin  scowled  on  one  side  while  fortune 
smiled  on  the  other. 


244  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

No  novelist's  works  have  sold  more  freely  than 
those  of  Hall  Caine  and  Miss  Marie  Corelli.  Both 
are  highly  dramatic  in  style,  but  Miss  Corelli  has 
not  taken  to  play-writing,  preferring  the  novel  as  a 
means  of  expression. 

Hall  Caine,  on  the  other  hand,  has  been  tempted 
by  the  allurements  of  the  stage.  When  I  asked  him 
why  he  took  up  literature  as  a  profession,  he 
replied  : 

*'  I  write  a  novel  because  I  love  the  motive,  or  the 
story,  or  the  characters,  or  the  scene,  or  all  four,  and 
I  dramatise  it  because  I  like  to  see  my  subject  on 
the  stage.  If  more  material  considerations  sometimes 
influence  me,  more  spiritual  ones  are,  I  trust,  not 
always  absent.  I  don't  think  the  time  occupied  in 
writing  a  book  or  a  play  has  ever  entered  into  my 
calculations,  nor  do  I  quite  know  which  gives  me  most 
trouble." 

Continuing  the  subject,  I  ventured  to  ask  him 
whether  he  thought  drama    or    fiction  the  higher  art. 

"  I  like  both  the  narrative  and  the  dramatic  forms 
of  art,  but  perhaps  I  think  the  art  of  fiction  is  a 
higher  and  better  art  than  the  art  of  a  drama,  inas- 
much as  it  is  more  natural,  more  free,  and  more  various, 
and  yet  capable  of  equal  unity.  On  the  other  hand, 
I  think  the  art  of  the  drama  is  in  some  respects 
more  difficult,  because  it  is  more  artificial  and  more 
limited,  and  always  hampered  by  material  conditions 
which  concern  the  stage,  the  scenery,  the  actors,  and 
even  the  audience.  I  think,"  he  continued,  "  the 
novel  and  the  drama  have  their  separate  joys  for  the 


NOVELIST  AND   DRAMATIST         245 

novelist  and  dramatist,  and  also  their  separate  pains 
and  penalties. 

*'  On  the  whole,  I  find  it  difficult  to  compare 
things  so  different,  and  all  I  can  say  for  myself  is  that, 
notwithstanding  my  great  love  of  the  theatre,  I  find 
it  so  trying  in  various  ways — owing,  perhaps,  to  my 
limitations — that  I  do  not  grudge  any  one  the  success 
he  achieves  as  a  dramatist,  and  I  deeply  sympathise 
with   the  man   who  fails   in  that  character." 

How  true  that  is  !  By  far  the  most  lenient  critics 
are  the  workers.  It  is  the  man  who  never  wrote  a 
book  who  criticises  most  severely,  the  man  who  never 
painted  a  picture  who  is  the  hardest  to  please. 

Speaking  about  the  dramatic  element  of  the  modern 
novel,  Mr.  Caine  continued  : 

"  But  then  the  novel,  since  the  days  of  Scott, 
has  so  encroached  upon  the  domain  of  the  drama,  and 
become  so  dramatic  in  form  that  the  author  who  has 
'  the  sense  of  the  theatre '  may  express  himself  fairly 
well  without  tempting  his  fate  in  that  most  fascinating 
but  often  most  fatal  little  world." 

Such  was  Mr.  Caine's  opinion  on  the  novelist  as 
dramatist. 

Hall  Caine's  personality  is  too  well  known  to  need 
describing  ;  but  his  handwriting  is  a  marvel.  He  gets 
more  into  a  page  than  any  one  I  know,  unless  it  be 
Whistler,  Sydney  Lee,  or  Zangwill.  Mr.  Caine's 
caligraphy  at  a  little  distance  looks  like  Chinese,  it  is 
beautifully  neat  and  tidy — but  most  difficult  to  read. 
Like  Frankfort  Moore,  Richard  Le  Gallienne,  and  a 
host  of   others,   he   scribbles  with  a  small   pad  in   his 


246  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

hand,  or  on  his  knee.  Some  people  prefer  writing 
in  queer  positions,  cramped  for  room — others,  on  the 
contrary,   require  huge  tables  and  vast  space. 

"  John  Oliver  Hobbes  "  is  the  uneuphonious  pseu- 
donym chosen  by  Pearl  Teresa  Craigie,  another  of  our 
novel-dramatists.  She  has  hardly  been  as  successful  with 
her  plays  as  with  her  brilliant  books,  and  therefore  it 
seems  unlikely  that  she  will  discard  the  latter  for  the 
former.  The  world  has  smiled  on  Mrs.  Craigie,  for 
she  was  born  of  rich  parents.  Although  an  American 
she  lives  in  London  (Lancaster  Gate),  and  has  a  charm- 
ing house  in  the  Isle  of  Wight.  She  has  only  one  son, 
so  is  more  or  less  independent,  can  travel  about  and  do 
as  she  Hkes,  therefore  her  thoughtful  work  and  industry 
are  all  the  more  praiseworthy.     Ability  will  out. 

Mrs.  Craigie  is  an  extremely  good-looking  woman. 
She  is  petite^  with  chestnut  hair  and  eyes  ;  is  always 
dressed  in  the  latest  gowns  from  Paris  ;  has  a  charming 
voice  ;  is  musical  and  devoted   to  chess. 

J.  M.  Barrie,  one  of  the  most  successful  of  our 
novel  dramatists,  is  most  reticent  about  his  work.  He 
is  a  shy,  retiring  little  man  with  a  big  brain  and  a 
charitable  heart  ;  but  he  dislikes  publicity  in  every 
form.  He  seems  almost  ashamed  to  own  that  he 
writes,  and  he  cannot  bear  his  plays  to  be  discussed — 
so  when  he  says,  "  Please  excuse  me.  I  have  such 
a  distaste  for  saying  or  writing  anything  about  my 
books  or  plays  for  publication  ;  if  it  were  not  so  I 
should  do  as  you  suggest  with  pleasure,"  one's  hand 
is  tied,  and  Mr.  Barrie's  valuable  opinion  on  the  novel 
and  the  drama  is  lost. 


NOVELIST   AND   DRAMATIST         247 

It  was  a  difficult  problem  to  decide.  Naturally  the 
public  expect  much  mention  of  J.  M.  Barrie  among 
the  playwrights  of  the  day,  for  had  he  not  four  pieces 
running  at  London  theatres  at  the  same  moment  ? 
But  to  make  mention  means  to  offend  Mr.  Barrie  and 
lose  a  friend. 

This  famous  author  creates  and  writes,  but  no 
one  must  write  about  him.  Whether  his  simple 
childhood,  passed  in  a  quaint  little  Scotch  village,  is 
the  source  of  this  reticence,  or  whether  it  is  caused 
by  the  oppression  of  the  fortune  he  has  accumulated 
by  his  plays,  no  one  discourses  upon  Mr.  Barrie 
except  at  the  risk  of  earning  his  grave  displeasure. 
He  is  probably  the  most  fantastic  writer  of  the 
day,  and  most  of  the  accounts  of  him  have  been 
as  fantastic  as  his  work.  Thus  the  curtain  cannot 
be  lifted,  while  he  smokes  and  dreams  delicately 
pitiless  sentiment  behind  the  scenes  so  far  as  this 
volume  is  concerned. 

"  Anthony  Hope  "  is  another  dramatic  novelist.  He 
began  his  career  as  a  barrister,  tried  for  Parliamentary 
honours,  and  failed  ;  took  to  writing  novels  and 
succeeded,  and  now  seems  likely  to  end  his  days  in 
the   forefront  of  British  dramatists. 

He  was  educated  at  Marlborough,  became  a  scholar 
of  Balliol  College,  Oxford,  where  he  gained  first-class 
Mods,  and  first-class  Lit.  Hum.,  so  he  has  gone 
through  the  educational  mill  with  distinction,  and  is 
now  inclined  to  turn  aside  from  novels  of  pure  romance 
to  more  psychological  studies.  This  is  particularly 
noticeable  in  duisante  and  'Tristram  of  Blent. 


248  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

The  author  of  The  Prisoner  of  Zenda  is  one  of  the 
best-known  men  in  London  society.  He  loves  our 
great  city.  Mr.  Hope  is  most  sociable  by  nature  ; 
not  only  does  he  dine  out  incessantly,  but  as  a 
bachelor  was  one  of  those  delightful  men  who  took 
the  trouble  to  entertain  his  lady  friends.  Charming 
little  dinners  and  luncheons  were  given  by  this  man 
of  letters,  and  as  he  had  chambers  near  one  of  our 
largest  hotels,  he  generally  took  the  guests  over  to 
his  flat  after  the  meal  for  coffee  and  cigars.  Many 
can  vouch  what  pleasant  evenings  those  were  ;  the 
geniality  of  the  host,  the  frequent  beauty  of  his  guests, 
and  the  generally  brilliant  conversation  made  those 
bachelor  entertainments  things  to  be  remembered. 
His  charming  sister-in-law  often  played  the  role  of 
hostess  for  him  ;  she  is  a  Norwegian  by  birth,  and 
an  intimate  friend  of  the  Scandinavian  writer  Bjorn- 
stjerne-Bjornson,  whose  personality  impressed  me  more 
than  that  of  any  other  author  I  ever  met. 

The  bachelor  life  has  come  to  an  end. 

Nearly  twenty  years  ago  Anthony  Hope  began  to 
write  novels  with  red-haired  heroines — The  Prisoner  of 
Zenda  is  perhaps  the  best-known  of  the  series.  No 
one  could  doubt  that  he  admired  warm-coloured  hair, 
for  auburns  and  reds  appeared  in  all  his  books.  One 
fine  day  an  auburn-haired  goddess  crossed  his  path. 
She  was  young  and  beautiful,  and  just  the  living 
girl  he  had  described  so  often  in  fiction.  Anthony 
Hope,  the  well-known  bachelor  of  London,  was  con- 
quered by  the  American  maid.  A  very  short  engage- 
ment   was    followed    by    a    beautiful    wedding    in    the 


From  a  p„i>,/,Jii;  by  Hu-;h  dc  T.  Ghzchyoak. 


i\jlL^ 


MR.    ANTHONY    HOPE. 


NOVELIST   AND   DRAMATIST         249 

summer  of  1903,  at  that  quaint  old  city  church, 
St.  Bride's,  where  his  father  has  been  Rector  so  long. 
It  was  a  lovely  hot  day  as  we  drove  along  the 
Embankment,  through  a  labyrinth  of  printing  offices 
and  early  newspaper  carts,  to  the  door  of  the  church. 
All  the  bustle  and  heat  of  the  city  outside  was  for- 
gotten in  the  cool  shade  of  the  handsome  old  building, 
decorated  for  the  occasion  with  stately  palms.  Never 
was  there  a  prettier  wedding  or  a  more  lovely  bride, 
and  all  the  most  beautiful  women  in  London  seemed 
to  be  present. 

The  bridegroom,  who  was  wearing  a  red  rosebud 
which  blossomed  somewhat  alarmingly  during  the 
ceremony,  looked  very  proud  and  happy  as  he  led 
the  realisation  of  twenty  years'  romance  down  the 
aisle. 

"  Anthony  Hope  "  is  not  his  real  name,  and  yet 
it  is,  which  may  appear  paradoxical.  He  was  born 
a  Hawkins,  being  the  second  son  of  the  Rev.  E.  C. 
Hawkins,  and  nephew  of  Mr.  Justice  Hawkins,  now 
known  as  Baron  Brampton.  The  child  was  christened 
Anthony  Hope,  and  when  he  took  to  literature  to 
fill  in  the  gaps  in  his  legal  income,  he  apparently 
thought  it  better  for  the  struggling  barrister  not  to 
be  identified  with  the  budding  journalist,  and  con- 
sequently dropped  the  latter  part  of  his  name.  Thus 
it  was  he  won  his  spurs  as  Anthony  Hope,  and  many 
people  know  him  by  no  other  title,  although  he 
always  signs  himself  Hawkins,  and  calls  himself  by 
that  nomenclature  in  private  life.  Rather  amusing 
incidents    have    been    the    result.      People   when   first 


250  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

introduced  seldom  realise  the  connection,  and  discuss 
"  Lady  Ursula,"  or  other  books,  very  frankly  with 
their  new  acquaintance.  Their  consequent  embar- 
rassment or  amusement  may  be  better  imagined 
than  described !  Aliases  often  lead  to  awkward 
moments. 

Literary  men  are  not,  as  a  rule,  famed  for 
"  speechifying,"  but  Mr.  Hawkins  is  an  exception. 
He  went  to  America  a  few  years  ago  an  indifferent 
orator,  and  returned  a  good  one.  This  was  the 
result  of  a  lecturing  tour — one  of  those  expeditions 
of  many  thousand  miles  of  travel  and  daily  discourse 
in  different  towns.  Literary  men  are  not  generally 
more  orderly  at  their  writing-tables  than  they  are 
good  at  delivering  a  speech,  but  here  again  Anthony 
Hope  is  an  exception.  His  desk  is  so  neat  and 
precise  it  reminds  one  irresistibly  of  a  punctilious  old 
maid  (I  trust  he  will  forgive  the  simile  .?),  so  methodical 
are  his  arrangements.  He  writes  everything  with 
his  own  hand,  and  replies  to  letters  almost  by  return 
of  post,  although  he  is  a  busy  man,  for  he  not  only 
writes  for  four  or  five  hours  a  day,  but  attends  endless 
charity  meetings,  and  takes  an  energetic  part  among 
other  things  in  the  working  of  the  Society  of  Authors, 
of  which  he  is  chairman.  He  does  nothing  by  halves  ; 
everything  he  undertakes  he  is  sure  to  see  through, 
being  most  conscientious  in  all  his  work.  In  many 
ways  Anthony  Hope  often  reminds  one  of  the  late 
Sir  Walter  Besant,  both  alike  ever  ready  to  help  a 
colleague  in  distress,  ever  willing  to  aid  by  council 
or    advice    those     in    need,    and    untiring    so    far    as 


NOVELIST   AND   DRAMATIST         251 

literary    work    for    themselves,   or    helping    others,    is 
concerned. 

Mr.  Hawkins  is  generally  calm  and  collected,  but  I 
remember  an  occasion  when  he  was  quite  the  reverse. 
It  was  the  first  performance  of  one  of  his  plays,  and 
he  stood  behind  me  in  a  box,  well  screened  from 
public  gaze  by  the  curtain.  First  he  rested  on  one 
foot,  then  on  the  other,  always  to  the  accompaniment 
of  rattling  coins.  Oh,  how  he  turned  those  pennies 
over  and  over  in  his  pockets,  until  at  last  I  entreated 
to  be  allowed  to  "  hold  the  bank  "  until  the  fall  of 
the  curtain. 

First  nights  affect  playwrights  differently,  but  al- 
though they  generally  disown  it,  they  seem  to  suffer 
tortures,  poor  creatures. 

For  an  important  production  there  are  as  many 
as  two  or  three  thousand  applications  for  seats  on 
a  "  first  night,"  but  to  a  great  extent  each  theatre 
has  its  own  audience.  The  critics  are  of  course  the 
most  important  element.  As  matters  stand  they  know 
nothing  of  what  they  are  going  to  see,  they  have 
not  studied  or  even  read  the  play  beforehand,  and 
yet  are  expected  to  sum  up  the  whole  drama  and 
criticise  the  acting  an  hour  or  two  later.  The  idea 
is  preposterous.  If  serious  dramas  are  to  be  con- 
sidered seriously,  time  must  be  given  for  the  purpose, 
and  the  premiers  must  begin  a  couple  of  hours  earlier, 
or  a  dress  rehearsal  for  the  critics  arranged  the  night 
before,  just  as  a  "  press  view  "  is  organised  at  a  picture 
gallery.  As  it  is,  all  the  critics  go  in  the  first 
night. 


2  52  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

That  is  why  the  bulk  of  those  in  the  stalls  are 
men.  Some  take  notes  throughout  the  acts,  others 
jot  down  pungent  lines  during  the  dialogue  ;  but  all 
are  working  at  high  pressure,  and  however  clear  the 
slate  of  their  mind  may  be  on  entering  the  theatre, 
it  is  well  covered  with  impressions  when  they  leave. 
From  that  jumble  of  ideas  they  have  to  unravel  the 
play,  criticise  the  dramatist's  work,  and  make  a  study 
of  the  suitabiHty  of  the  actors  to  their  parts.  This 
unreflecting  impression  must  be  quickly  put  to- 
gether, for  a  critic  has  no  time  for  leisurely  philosophic 
judgments. 

The  critics,  or,  rather,  "  the  representatives  of  the 
papers,"  are  given  their  seats  ;  but  the  rest  of  the  house 
pays.  Only  people  of  eminence,  or  personal  friends 
of  the  management,  are  permitted  the  honour  of  a 
seat.  Their  names  are  on  the  "  first-night  list,"  and 
if  they  apply  they  receive,  the  outside  public  rarely 
getting  a  chance. 

The  entrance  to  a  theatre  on  a  first  night  is  an 
interesting  scene.  Many  of  the  best-known  men 
and  women  of  London  are  chatting  to  friends  in 
the  hall ;  but  they  never  forget  their  manners,  and  are 
always  in  their  places  in  good  time.  Between  the  acts 
those  who  are  near  the  end  of  a  row  get  up  and 
move  about  ;  in  any  case  the  critics  leave  their  seats, 
and  many  of  them  begin  their  "  copy  "  during  the 
entr'acte.  Other  men  not  professionally  engaged 
wander  round  the  boxes  and  talk  to  their  friends, 
and  a  general  air  of  happy  expectation  pervades  the 
auditorium. 


NOVELIST   AND   DRAMATIST  253 

"  Stuffed  with  obesity  or  anasmia,"  exclaimed  a 
well-known  dramatist  when  describing  the  dramatic 
critics.  However  that  may  be  the  dramatic  critic  is  an 
important  person,  and  his  post  no  sinecure.  It  is  all 
very  well  when  first  night  representations  are  given  on 
Saturday,  because  then  only  the  handful  of  Sunday 
paper  writers  have  to  scramble  through  their  work. — 
but  when  Wednesday  or  Thursday  is  chosen,  as  some- 
times happens,  dozens  of  poor  unfortunate  men  and 
women  have  to  work  far  into  the  night  over  their 
column — they  have  no  time  to  consider  the  comedy 
or  tragedy  from  any  standpoint  beyond  the  first  im- 
pression. No  doubt  a  play  should  make  an  impression 
at  once,  and  that  is  why  the  drama  cannot  be  criticised 
in  the  same  way  as  books.  The  playwright  must 
make  an  immediate  effect,  or  he  will  not  make  one  at 
all  ;  while  the  poet  or  novelist  can  be  contemplated 
with  serenity  and  commented  on  at  leisure. 

There  are  so  many  problem  plays  nowadays,  how- 
ever, that  it  is  often  difficult  for  the  critic  to  make  his 
decision  between  the  close  of  the  theatre  at  midnight 
and  his  arrival  at  the  nearest  telegraph  office  (if  he 
be  on  a  provincial  paper),  or  at  the  London  newspaper 
office,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  when  that  impression 
has  to  be  reduced  to  paper  and  ink.  Only  those  who 
have  written  at  this  nervous  pressure  know  its  terrors. 
To  have  a  "  devil  "  (the  printer's  boy)  standing  at 
one's  elbow  waiting  for  *'  copy  "  is  horrible — the  ink  is 
not  dry  on  the  paper  as  sheet  after  sheet  goes  off  to  the 
compositor  waiting  its  arrival.  By  the  time  the 
writer    reaches    his   last    sentences    the   first   pages   are 


254  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

all  in  type  waiting  his  corrections.  At  2  a.m.  the  notice 
must  be  out  of  his  hands  for  good  or  ill,  because  the 
final  "  make-up  "  of  the  paper  necessitates  his  "  copy  " 
filling  the  exact  space  allotted  to  him  by  the  editor, 
and  two  hours  later  that  selfsame  newspaper,  printed 
and  machined,  is  on  its  way  to  the  provinces  by  the 
"newspaper  trains,"  and  on  sale  in  Liverpool,  Birming- 
ham, or  Sheffield,  a  few  hours  only  after  the  latest 
theatrical  criticism  has  been  added  to  its  columns. 

The  stage  is  necessarily  intimately  connected  with 
the  press,  and  a  free  hand  is  imperative  if  the  well- 
reasoned  essay,  and  not  merely  a  reporter's  account, 
is  to  be  of  value. 

Wise  critics  refuse  to  know  personally  the  objects 
of  their  criticism,  and  so  avoid  many  troubles,  for 
many  actors  are  hyper-sensitive  by  nature.  The  press 
is  naturally  a  great  factor,  but  it  cannot  make  or  mar 
a  play  any  more  than  it  can  make  or  mar  a  book  ;  it 
can  fan  the  flame,  but  it  cannot  make  the  blaze. 

At  the  O.P.  Club  Alfred  Robbins  recently  delivered 
an  address  on  "  Dramatic  Critics  :  Are  they  any  use  ?  " 
He  pertinently  remarked  : 

"  A  play  is  like  a  cigar — if  it  is  bad  no  amount 
of  puffing  will  make  it  draw  ;  but  if  good  then 
every  one  wants  a  box."  He  held  that  the  great 
danger  was  that  the  critic  should  lack  pluck  to  protest 
against  a  revolting  play  on  a  well-advertised  stage, 
and  follow  the  lead  of  the  applause  of  programme- 
sellers  in  a  fashionable  house  ;  while  making  up 
for  it  by  hunting  for  faults  with  a  microscope  in  the 
case  of  a  young  author  or  manager.     The  critic  should 


NOVELIST   AND   DRAMATIST         255 

tell  not  so  much  how  the  play  affected  him  as  how 
it  affected  the  audience.  Critics  were  always  useful 
when  they  were  interesting,  but  not  when  they  tried 
to  instruct. 

E.  F.  Spence,  as  a  critic  himself,  pointed  out  that 
some  critics  had  no  words  that  were  not  red  and 
yellow,  while  others  wrote  entirely  in  grey.  When 
one  man  said  a  play  was  "  not  half  bad,"  and  another 
described  it  as  an  "  unparalleled  masterpiece,"  they 
meant  often  the  same  thing.  And  the  readers  of 
each,  accustomed  to  their  tone  and  style,  knew  what 
to  expect  from  their  words. 

Mrs.  Kendal  thought  "  criticism  would  be  better 
after  three  weeks,  when  the  actor  had  learnt  to  know 
his  points."  All  agreed  that  the  critics  of  to-day  are 
scrupulously  conscientious. 

G.  Bernard  Shaw  wrote  :  "  A  dramatic  criticism 
is  a  work  of  literary  art,  useful  only  to  the  people 
who  enjoy  reading  dramatic  criticisms,  and  generally 
more  or  less  hurtful  to  everybody  else  concerned." 

Clement  Shorter's  opinion  was  :  "  I  do  not  in 
the  least  believe  in  the  utility  of  dramatic  critics. 
The  whole  sincerity  of  the  game  has  been  spoilt. 
The  hand  of  the  dramatic  critic  is  stayed  because 
the  dramatist  and  the  important  actor  have  a  wide 
influence  with  the  proprietors  of  newspapers." 

An  anonymous  manager  wrote  :  "  The  few  in- 
dependent critics  are  of  great  use,  but  the  critic 
who  turns  his  attention  to  play-writing  should  not 
be  allowed  to  criticise,  for  he  is  never  fair  to  any 
author's  work  except  his  own.     It  has  paid  managers 


256  BEHIND    THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

to  accept  plays  from  critics  even  if  they  don't  produce 
them." 

Apart  from  criticism  the  theatre  is  in  daily  touch 
with  the  papers,  for  one  of  the  greatest  expenses 
in  connection  with  a  theatre  is  the  "  Press  Bill." 
From  four  to  six  thousand  pounds  a  year  is  paid 
regularly  for  newspaper  advertising,  just  for  those 
advertisements  that  appear  "  under  the  clock," 
and  in  those  columns  announcing  plays,  players,  and 
hours. 

The  distribution  of  "  paper  "  is  a  curious  custom, 
some  managers  prefer  to  fill  their  houses  by  such 
means,  others  disdain  the  practice,  especially  the 
Kendals,  who  are  as  adverse  to  "  free  passes  "  as  they 
are  to  dress  rehearsals,  and  who  always  insist  on 
paying  for  their  own  tickets  to  see  their  friends  act. 
An  empty  house  is  nevertheless  dispiriting — dispiriting 
to  the  audience  and  dispiriting  to  the  performers — so 
a  little  paper  judiciously  used  may  often  bolster  up  a 
play  in   momentary  danger  of  collapse. 

"  Stalls  full."  ''  Dress  Circle  full."  "  House  full." 
Such  notices  are  often  put  outside  the  playhouse 
during  a  performance,  and  in  London  they  generally 
mean  what  they  say.  In  the  provinces,  however,  a 
gentleman  arrived  at  an  hotel,  and  after  dinner  went 
off  to  the  theatre  as  he  had  no  club.  He  saw  the 
placards,  but  boldly  marched  up  to  the  box  office  in 
the  hope  that  perchance  he  might  obtain  an  odd  seat 
somewhere. 

"  A  stall,  please." 

"  Yes,  sir,  which  row  ?  "     When   he  got  inside  he 


NOVELIST   AND   DRAM Al  1ST  257 

found  the  place  half  empty,  in  spite  of  the  legend 
before  the  doors. 

A  well-known  singer  wired  for  a  box  in  London 
one  night — it  being  an  understood  thing  that  pro- 
fessional people  may  have  seats  free  if  they  are  not 
already  sold.  She  prepaid  the  answer  to  the  telegram 
as  usual.     It  ran  : 

"  So  sorry,  no  boxes  left  to-night." 

The  next  day  she  met  a  friend  at  luncheon  who  had 
been  to  that  particular  theatre  the  night  before.  He 
remarked  : 

"  It  was  a  most  depressing  performance  :  the  house 
was  half  empty,  and  the  actors  dull  in  consequence." 

Then  the  singer  told  her  story,  and  both  had  a 
good  laugh  over  the  telegram. 

There  are  certain  bad  weeks  which  appear  with  strict 
regularity  in  the  theatrical  world.  Bank-holiday  time 
means  empty  houses  in  the  West  End.  Just  before 
Easter  or  Christmas  are  always  "off"  nights.  Royal 
mourning  reduces  the  takings,  and  one  night's  London 
fog  half  empties  the  house.  Lent  does  not  make 
anything  like  so  great  a  difference  as  formerly  ;  indeed, 
in  some  theatres  its  advent  is  hardly  noticed  at  all. 
Saturday  always  yields  the  biggest  house.  Whether 
this  is  because  Sunday  being  a  day  of  rest  people  need 
not  get  up  so  early,  or  because  Saturday  is  pay  day, 
or  because  it  is  either  a  half  or  whole  holiday,  no  one 
knows  ;  but  it  always  produces  the  largest  takings  of 
the  week,  just  as  Monday  is  invariably  the  fattest 
booking-day.  This  may  possibly  be  due  to  Sunday 
callers    discussing    the  best  performances,  and    recom- 

17 


258  BEHIND  THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

mending  their  friends  to  go  to  this  or  that  piece. 
The  good  booking  of  Monday  is  more  often  than 
not  followed  by  a  bad  house  on  Monday  night,  which 
is  the  "off"  day  of  the  week.  A  play  will  run 
successfully  for  weeks,  suddenly  Black  Monday  arrives, 
and  at  once  down,  down,  down  goes  the  sale,  until 
the  play  is  taken  off;  no  one  can  tell  why  it  declines 
any  more  than  they  can  predict  the  success  or 
failure  of  a  play  until  after  its  first  two  or  three 
performances. 

It  seems  to  be  generally  imagined  that  Royalty  do 
not  pay  for  their  seats  ;  but  this  is  a  mistake.  One 
fine  day  a  message  comes  from  one  of  the  ticket 
agents  to  the  theatres  to  say  that  the  King  and  Queen, 
or  Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales,  will  go  to  that 
theatre  on  a  certain  night.  Generally  a  couple  of 
days'  notice  is  given.  Consternation  often  ensues, 
for  it  sometimes  happens  the  Royal  box  has  been 
sold.  The  purchaser  has  to  be  called  upon  to  explain 
that  by  Royal  command  his  box  is  required  for  the 
night  in  question,  and  will  he  graciously  take  it 
some  other  evening  instead  ?  or  he  is  offered  other 
seats.  People  are  generally  charming  about  the 
matter  and  ready  to  meet  the  manager  at  once — but 
sometimes  there  are  difficulties.  Wild  pursuit  of 
the  owner  of  the  box  occasionally  occurs  ;  indeed,  he 
sometimes  has  not  been  traceable  at  all,  and  has  even 
arrived  at  the  theatre,  only  to  be  told  the  situation. 

The  box  is  duly  paid  for  by  the  library  ;  Royalty 
never  accept  their  seats,  and  are  most  punctilious  about 
paying  for  them. 


NOVELIST   AND    DRAMATIST  259 

At  the  back  of  the  Royal  box  there  is  generally  a 
retiring-room,  where  the  gentlemen  smoke,  and  some- 
times coffee  is  served.  The  King,  who  is  so  noted 
for  his  cordiality,  usually  sends  for  the  leading  actor 
and  actress  during  an  entracte^  and  chats  with  them  for 
a  few  minutes  in  the  ante-room  ;  but  the  Queen  rarely 
leaves  her  seat.  After  the  death  of  Queen  Victoria 
it  was  a  long  time,  a  year  in  fact,  before  the  King  went 
to  the  theatre  at  all.  After  that  he  visited  most  of 
the  chief  houses  in  quick  succession,  but  he  did  not 
send  for  the  players  for  at  least  six  months,  not,  in 
fact,  till  the  Royal  mourning  was  at  an  end.  His 
Majesty  is  probably  the  warmest  and  most  frequent 
supporter  of  the  drama  in  Britain,  as  the  Queen  is  of 
the  opera. 

In  olden  days  Royal  visits  were  treated  with  much 
ceremony.  Cyril  Maude  in  his  excellent  book  on 
the  Haymarket  Theatre  tells  how  old  Buckstone  was 
a  great  favourite  with  Queen  Victoria.  The  Royal 
entrance  in  those  days  was  through  the  door  of 
"  Bucky's "  house  which  adjoined  the  back  of  the 
theatre  in  Suffolk  Street.  At  the  street  door  the 
manager  waited  whenever  the  Royal  box  had  been 
commanded.  In  either  hand  he  carried  a  massive 
silver  candlestick,  and,  walking  backwards,  escorted 
the  Royal  party  with  monstrous  pomp  to  their  seats. 
As  soon  as  he  had  shown  them  to  their  box,  however, 
the  amiable  comedian  had  to  hurry  off  to  take  his 
place  upon  the  stage. 

Nothing  of  that  kind  is  done  nowadays,  although 
the  manager  generally  goes  to  meet  them  ;  but  if  the 


26o  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

manager  be  the  chief  actor  too,  he  sends  his  stage 
manager  just  to  see  that  everything  is  in  order — 
Royal  folk  like  to  come  and  go  as  unostentatiously  as 
possible. 

Many  theatres  have  a  private  door  for  Royalty  to 
enter  by.  As  a  rule  they  are  punctual,  and  if  not 
the  curtain  gives  them  a  few  minutes'  grace  before 
rising.  If  they  are  not  in  their  seats  within  ten 
minutes,  the  play  begins,  and  they  just  slip  quietly 
into  their   places. 

At  the  Opera  on  gala  nights  it  is  different — the  play 
waits.  When  they  enter,  the  band  strikes  up  "  God 
Save  the  King,"  and  every  one  stands  up.  It  is  a  very 
interesting  sight  to  see  the  huge  mass  of  humanity  at 
Covent  Garden  rise  together,  and  see  them  all  stand 
during  the  first  verse  in  respect  to  Royalty.  The  Queen 
on  ordinary  occasions  occupies  the  Royal  box  on  the 
right  facing  the  stage  on  the  grand  tier,  and  three 
back  from  the  stage  itself,  so  there  are  tiers  of  boxes 
above  and  one  below  ;  the  Queen  sits  in  the  corner 
the  farthest  from  the  stage  ;  the  King  often  joins 
her  during  the  performance,  otherwise  he  sits  in 
the  omnibus  box  below  with  his  men  friends. 
So  devoted  is  Her  Majesty  to  music  she  sometimes 
spends  three  evenings  a  week  at  the  Opera.  She 
often  has  a  book  of  the  score  before  her,  and  follows 
the  music  with  the  greatest   interest. 

On  ordinary  operatic  nights  the  Queen  dresses  very 
quietly  ;  generally  her  bodice  is  cut  square  back  and 
front  with  elbow-sleeves,  and  not  off  the  shoulders 
as   it   is  at  Court.      More    often    than   not  she   wears 


NOVELIST   AND  DRAMATIST  261 

black  with  a  bunch  of  pink  malmaisons — of  course  the 
usual  heavy  collar  composed  of  many  rows  of  pearls  is 
worn,  and  generally  some  hanging  chains  of  pearls. 
No  tiara,  but  diamond  wings  or  hair  combs  of  that 
description.  In  fact,  at  the  Opera  our  Queen  is 
one  of  the  least  conspicuously  dressed  among  the 
many  duchesses  and  millionairesses  who  don  tiaras 
and  gorgeous  gowns.  No  Opera-house  in  the  world 
contains  so  many  beautiful  women  and  jewels  as  may 
nightly  be  seen  in  London. 

In  front  is  a  number  above  each  box,  and  at  the 
back  of  the  box  is  the  duplicate  number  with  the 
name  of  the  person  to  whom  it  belongs.  They  are 
hired  for  a  season,  and  cost  seven  and  a  half  to  eight 
guineas  a  night  on  the  grand  tier.  These  boxes  hold 
four  people,  and  are  usually  let  for  ten  or  twelve 
weeks  :  generally  for  two  nights  a  weeks  to  each 
set  of  people.  Thus  the  total  cost  of  one  of  the 
best  boxes  for  the  season  is,  roughly  speaking,  from 
one  hundred  and  fifty,  to  one  hundred  and  eighty 
guineas  for  two  nights  a  week. 

At  the  theatre  Queen  Alexandra  dresses  even  more 
simply  than  at  the  opera.  In  winter  her  gown  is  often 
filled  in  with  lace  to  the  neck.  She  is  always  a  quiet, 
but  a  perfect  dresser.  Never  in  the  fashion,  yet  always 
of  the  fashion,  she  avoids  all  exaggerations,  moderates 
her  skirts  and  her  sleeves,  and  yet  has  just  enough  of 
the  dernier  cri  about  them  to  make", them, up, to  date. 
She  probably  never  wore  a  big  picture., hat  in  her 
life,  and  prefers  a  small  bonnet  with  strings,  to  a 
toque. 


262  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Royalty  thoroughly  enjoy  themselves  at  the  play. 
They  laugh  and  chat  between  the  acts,  and  no  one 
applauds  more  enthusiastically  than  King  Edward  VII. 
and  nis  beautiful  Queen.  They  use  their  opera- 
glasses  freely,  nod  to  their  friends,  and  thoroughly 
enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  evening's  entertainment. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

SCENE-PAINTING  AND   CHOOSING  A   PLAY 

Novelist  —  Dramatist  —  Scene-painter  —  An  Amateur  Scenic  Artist — 
Weedon  Grossmith  to  the  Rescue — Mrs.  Tree's  Children — Mr. 
Grossmith's  Start  on  the  Stage — A  Romantic  Marriage — How  a 
Scene  is  built  up — English  and  American  Theatres  Compared — 
Choosing  a  Play — Theatrical  Syndicate — Three  Hundred  and 
Fifteen  Plays  at  the  Haymarket. 

A  NOVELIST  describes  the  surroundings  of  his 
story.  He  paints  in  words,  houses,  gardens, 
dresses,  anything  and  everything  to  heighten  the  picture 
and  show  up  his  characters  in  a  suitable  frame. 

The  dramatist  cannot  do  this  verbally  ;  but  he  does 
it  in  fact.  He  definitely  decides  the  style  of  scene 
necessary  for  each  act,  and  draws  out  elaborate  plans 
to  achieve  that  end.  It  is  the  author  who  interviews 
the  scene-painter,  talks  matters  over  with  the  costume- 
artist,  the  dressmaker,  and  the  upholsterer.  It  is  the 
author  who  generally  chooses  the  cretonnes  and  the 
wall-papers — that  is  to  say,  the  more  important  authors 
invariably  do.  Mr.  Pinero,  Mr.  W.  S.  Gilbert,  and 
Captain  Robert  Marshall  design  their  own  scenes  to 
the  minutest  detail,  but  then  all  three  of  them  are 
capable  artists  and  draughtsmen  themselves. 

Scene-painting  seems  easy  until  one   knows   some- 

263 


264  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

thing  about  its  difficulties.  To  speak  of  a  small 
personal  experience — when  we  got  up  those  theatricals 
in  Harley  Street,  mentioned  in  a  previous  chapter, 
my  father  told  me  I  must  paint  the  scenery,  to  which 
I  gaily  agreed.  Having  an  oil  painting  on  exhibition 
at  the  Women  Artists',  I  felt  I  could  paint  scenery 
without  any  difficulty. 

First  of  all  I  bought  yards  and  yards  of  thick  canvas, 
a  sort  of  sacking.  It  refused  to  be  joined  together 
by  machine,  and  broke  endless  needles  when  the  seams 
were  sewn  by  hand.  It  appeared  to  me  at  the  time 
as  if  oakum-picking  could  not  blister  fingers  more 
severely.  After  all  my  trouble,  when  finished  and 
stretched  along  a  wall  in  the  store-room  in  the  base- 
ment, with  the  sky  part  doubled  over  the  ceiling  (as 
the  little  room  was  not  high  enough  to  manage  it 
otherwise),  the  surface  was  so  rough  that  paint  refused 
to  lie  upon  it. 

I  had  purchased  endless  packets  of  blue  and  chrome, 
vermilion  and  sienna,  umber  and  sap-green  ;  but 
somehow  the  result  was  awful,  and  the  only  promising 
thing  was  the  design  in  black  chalk  made  from  a 
sketch  taken  on  Hampstead  Heath.  Sticks  of  charcoal 
broke  and  refused  to  draw  ;  but  common  black  chalk 
at  last  succeeded.  I  struggled  bravely,  but  the  paint 
resolutely  refused  to  adhere  to  the  canvas,  and  stuck 
instead  to  every  part  of  my  person. 

At  last  some  wiseacre  suggested  whitewashing  the 
canvas,  and,  after  sundry  boilings  of  smelly  size,  the 
coachman  and  I  made  pails  of  whitewash  and  proceeded 
to   get  a  groundwork.     Alas  !   the  brushes  when   full 


Photo  by  tlall,  Af:,'  YuiA: 


MK.    WEEDON   GROSSMITH. 


SCENE-PAINTING— CHOOSING  A  PLAY     265 

of  the  mixture  proved  too  heavy  for  me  to  Uft,  and 
the  unfortunate  coachman  had  to  do  most  of  that 
monotonous  field  of  white. 

So  far  so  good.  Now  came  "  the  part,"  as  the 
gallant  jehu  was  pleased  to  call  it. 

It  took  a  long  time  to  get  into  the  way  of  painting 
it  at  all.  The  window  had  to  be  shut,  the  solitary 
gas-jet  lighted,  endless  lamps  unearthed  to  give  more 
illumination  while  I  struggled  with  smelling  pots. 

Oh,  the  mess !  The  floor  was  bespattered,  and 
the  paint  being  mixed  with  size,  those  spots  remain 
as  indelible  as  Rizzio's  blood  at  Holyrood.  Then 
the  paint-smeared  sky — my  sky — left  marks  on  the 
ceiling — my  father's  ceiling — and  my  own  dress  was 
spoilt.  Then  up  rose  Mother  in  indignation,  and 
promptly  produced  an  old  white  garment — which  shall 
be  nameless,  although  it  was  decorated  with  little 
frills — and  this  I  donned  as  a  sort  of  overall.  With 
arms  aching  from  heavy  brushes,  and  feet  tired  from 
standing  on  a  ladder,  with  a  nose  well  daubed  with 
yellow  paint,  on,  on  I  worked. 

In  the  midst  of  my  labours  "  Mr.  Grossmith  "  was 
suddenly  announced,  and  there  below  me  stood 
Weedon  Grossmith  convulsed  with  laughter.  At  that 
time  he  was  an  artist  and  had  pictures  "  on  the  line  " 
at  the  Royal  Academy.  His  studio  was  a  few  doors 
from  us  in  Harley  Street. 

"  Don't  laugh,  you  horrid  man,"  I  exclaimed  ; 
"just  come  and  help." 

He  took  a  little  gentle  persuading,  but  finally  gave 
in,    and    being    provided  with  another  white    garment 


266  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

he  began  to  assist,  and  he  and  I  finally  finished  that 
wondrous  scene-painting  together. 

After  a  long  vista  of  years  Mrs.  Beerbohm  Tree — 
who,  it  will  be  remembered,  also  acted  with  us  in 
Harley  Street — and  Weedon  Grossmith — who  helped 
me  paint  the  scenery  for  our  little  performance — were 
playing  the  two  leading  parts  together  at  Drury  Lane 
in  Cecil  Raleigh's  Flood  Tide. 

The  two  little  daughters  of  the  Trees,  aged  six  and 
eight  respectively,  were  taken  by  their  father  one 
afternoon  to  see  their  mother  play  at  the  Lane. 
They  sat  with  him  in  a  box,  and  enjoyed  the  per- 
formance immensely. 

"  Well,  do  you  Uke  it  better  than  "RJchard  11.  ? " 
asked  Tree. 

There  was  a  pause.  Each  small  maiden  looked  at 
the  other,  ere  replying  : 

"  It  isn't  quite  the  same,  but  we  like  it  just  as 
much." 

When  they  reached  home  they  were  asked  by  a 
friend  which  of  the  two  plays  they  really   liked  best. 

"  Oh,  mother's,"  for  naturally  the  melodrama  had 
appealed  to  their  juvenile  minds,  "but  we  did  not  like 
to  tell  father  so,  because  we  thought  it  might  hurt 
his  feelings." 

The  part  that  delighted  them  most  at  Drury  Lane 
was  the  descent  of  the  rain,  that  wonderful  rain  which 
had  caused  so  much  excitement,  and  which  was  com- 
posed of  four  tons  of  rice  and  spangles  thrown  from 
above,  and  verily  gave  the  effect  of  a  shower  of 
water. 


SCENE-PAINTING— CHOOSING  A  PLAY     267 

But  to  return  to  Weedon  Grossmith.  Whether  he 
found  art  didn't  pay  at  the  studio  in  Harley  Street, 
or  whether  he  was  asked  to  paint  more  ugly  old 
ladies  than  pretty  young  ones,  I  do  not  know  ;  but 
he  gave  up  the  house,  and  went  off  to  America  for 
a  trip.  So  he  said  at  the  time,  but  the  trip  meant 
that  he  had  accepted  an  engagement  on  the  stage. 
He  made  an  instantaneous  hit.  When  he  returned 
to  England,  sure  of  his  position,  as  he  thought,  he 
found  instead  that  he  had  a  very  rough  time  of  it, 
and  it  was  not  until  he  played  with  Sir  Henry  Irving 
in  Robert  Maraire  that  he  made  a  London  success. 
Later  he  "  struck  oil "  in  Arthur  Law's  play.  The 
New  Boy  under  his  own  management. 

Round  the  The  New  Boy  circled  a  romance.  Miss 
May  Palfrey,  who  had  been  at  school  with  me,  was 
the  daughter  of  an  eminent  physician  who  formerly 
lived  in  Brook  Street.  She  had  gone  upon  the  stage 
after  her  father's  death,  and  was  engaged  to  play 
the  girl's  part.  The  "  engagement "  begun  in  the 
theatre  ended,  as  in  the  case  of  Forbes  Robertson,  in 
matrimony,  and  the  day  after  The  New  Boy  went 
out,  the  new  girl  entered  Weedon  Grossmith's  home 
as  his  wife. 

Success  has  followed  success,  and  they  now  live  in 
a  delightful  house  in  Bedford  Square,  surrounded  by 
quaint  old  furniture,  Adams'  mantelpieces,  overmantels, 
and  all  the  artistic  things  the  actor  appreciates.  A 
dear  little  girl  adds  brightness  to  the  home  life  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Weedon  Grossmith. 

Artist,  author,  actor,  manager,  are  all  terms  that  may 


268  BEHIND  THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

be  applied  to  Weedon  Grossmith,  but  might  not 
scene-painter  be  added  after  his  invaluable  aid  in  the 
Harley  Street  store-room  with  paints  and  size? 

So  much  for  the  amateur  side  of  the  business  :  now 
for  the  real. 

The  first  thing  a  scenic  artist  does  is  to  make  a 
complete  sketch  of  a  scene.  This,  when  approved, 
he  has  '*  built  up "  as  a  little  model,  a  miniature 
theatre,  in  fact,  such  as  children  love  to  play  with. 
It  is  usually  about  three  feet  square,  exactly  like  a 
box,  and  every  part  is  designed  to  scale  with  a 
perfection  of  detail  rarely  observed  outside  an 
architect's  office. 

One  of  the  most  historic  painting-rooms  was 
that  of  Sir  Henry  Irving  at  the  Lyceum,  for  there 
some  of  the  most  elaborate  stage  settings  ever  pro- 
duced were  constructed,  inspired  by  the  able  hand  of 
Mr.  Hawes  Craven. 

A  scene-painter's  workshop  is  a  large  affair.  It  is 
very  high,  and  below  the  floor  is  another  chamber 
equally  lofty,  for  the  "  flats,"  or  large  canvases,  have 
to  be  screwed  up  or  down  for  the  artist  to  be  able  to 
get  at  his  work.  They  cannot  be  rolled  wet,  so  the 
entire  "  flat  "  has  to  ascend  or  descend  at  will. 

To  make  the  matter  clear,  a  scene  on  the  stage, 
such  as  a  house  or  a  bridge,  is  known  as  a  "  carpenter's 
scene."  The  large  canvases  at  the  back  are  called 
"flats,"  or  "painters'  cloths."  "Wings"  are  un- 
known to  most  people,  but  really  mean  the  side-pieces 
of  the  scene  which  protrude  on  the  stage.  The 
"  borders  "  are  the  bits  of  sky  or  ceiling  which  hang 


SCENE-PAINTING— CHOOSING  A  PLAY     269 

suspended  from  above,  and  a  "  valarium  "  is  a  whole 
roof  as  used  in  classical  productions. 

A  scene-painter's  palette  is  a  strange  affair  ;  it  is 
like  a  large  wooden  tray  fixed  to  a  table,  and  that 
table  is  on  wheels  ;  along  one  side  of  the  tray  are 
divisions  like  stalls  in  a  stable,  each  division  containing 
the  different  coloured  paints,  while  in  front  is  a  flat 
piece  on  which  the  powders  can  be  mixed.  The 
thing  that  strikes  one  most  is  the  amount  of  exercise 
the  scenic  artist  takes.  He  is  constantly  stepping  back 
to  look  at  what  he  has  done,  for  he  copies  on  a  large 
scale  the  minute  sketch  he  has  previously  worked  out 
in  detail.  Assistants  generally  begin  the  work  and 
lay  the  paint  on  ;  but  all  the  finishing  touches  are 
done  by  the  master,  who  superintends  the  whole  thing 
being  properly  worked  out  from  his  model. 

The  most  elaborate  scenery  in  the  world  is  to  be 
found  in  London,  and  Sir  Henry  Irving,  as  mentioned 
before,  was  the  first  to  study  detail  and  effect  so 
closely.  Even  in  America,  where  many  things  are  so 
extravagant,  the  stage  settings  are  quite  poor  compared 
with  those  of  London. 

Theatres  in  England  and  America  differ  in  many 
ways.  The  only  thing  I  found  cheaper  in  the  United 
States  than  at  home  was  a  theatre  stall,  which  in 
New  York  cost  eight  shillings  instead  of  ten  and 
sixpence.  They  are  also  ahead  of  us  inasmuch  as  they 
book  their  cheaper  seats,  which  must  be  an  enormous 
advantage  to  those  unfortunate  people  who  can  always 
be  seen — especially  on  first  nights — wet  or  fine,  hot 
or  cold,  standing  in  rows  outside  a  London  pit  door. 


2  70  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

There  is  no  comparison  between  the  gaiety  of  the 
scene  of  a  London  theatre  and  that  of  New  York. 
Long  may  our  present  style  last.  In  London  every 
man  wears  evening  dress  in  the  boxes,  stalls,  and 
generally  in  the  dress  circle,  and  practically  every 
woman  is  in  evening  costume,  at  all  events  without 
her  hat.  Those  who  do  not  care  to  dress,  wisely  go  to 
the  cheaper  seats.  This  is  not  so  across  the  Atlantic. 
It  is  quite  the  exception  for  the  male  sex  to  wear 
dress  clothes  ;  they  even  accompany  ladies  to  the  stalls 
in  tweeds,  probably  the  same  tweeds  they  have  worn 
all  day  at  their  office  "  down  town,"  and  it  is  not  the 
fashion  for  women  to  wear  evening  dress  either. 
What  we  should  call  a  garden-party  gown  is  de  rigueur^ 
although  a  lace  neck  and  sleeves  are  gradually  creeping 
into  fashion.  Little  toques  are  much  worn,  but  if 
the  hat  be  big,  it  is  at  once  taken  off  and  disposed 
of  in  the  owner's  lap.  Being  an  American  she  is 
accustomed  to  nursing  her  hat  by  the  hour,  and  does 
not  seem  to  mind  the  extra  discomfort,  in  spite  of 
fan,  opera-glass,  and  other  etceteras. 

The  result  of  all  this  is  that  the  auditorium  is 
in  no  way  so  smart  as  that  of  a  London  theatre. 
The  origin  of  the  simplicity  of  costume  in  the 
States  of  course  lies  in  the  fact  that  fewer  people 
in  proportion  have  private  carriages,  cabs  are  a 
prohibitive  price,  and  every  one  travels  in  a  five 
cents  {^'^\d)  car.  The  car  system  is  wonderful,  if  a 
little  agitating  at  first  to  a  stranger,  as  the  numbers 
of  the  streets — for  they  rarely  have  names  in  New 
York — are   not    always   so    distinctly  marked  as    they 


SCENE-PAINTING— CHOOSING  A  PLAY     271 

might  be.  It  is  far  more  comfortable,  however,  to 
get  into  one's  carriage,  a  hansom,  or  even  a  dear 
old  ramshackle  shilling  "  growler "  at  one's  own 
door,  than  to  have  to  walk  to  the  nearest  car  *'  stop  " 
and  find  a  succession  of  electric  trams  full  when  you 
arrive  there,  especially  if  the  night  happens  to  be 
wet.  The  journey  is  cheap  enough  when  one  does 
get  inside,  but  payment  of  five  cents  does  not 
necessarily  ensure  a  seat,  so  the  greater  part  of  one's 
life  in  New  York  is  spent  hanging  on  to  the  strap 
of  a  street  car. 

"  Look  lively,"  shouts  the  conductor,  almost  before 
one  has  time  to  look  at  all,  and  either  life  has  to 
be  risked,  or  the  traveller  gets  left  behind  altogether. 

Not  only  travelling  in  cars,  but  many  things 
in  the  States  cost  twopence  halfpenny.  It  seems  a 
sort  of  tariflF,  that  five  cents,  or  nickle,  as  it  is  called. 
One  has  to  pay  five  cents  for  a  morning  or  evening 
paper,  five  cents  to  get  one's  boots  blacked,  and 
even  in  the  hotels  they  only  allow  a  darkie  to  perform 
that  operation  as  a  sort  of  favour. 

It  is  a  universal  custom  in  the  States  to  eat  candies 
during  a  performance  at  the  theatre,  but  when  do 
Americans  refrain  from  eating  candies — one  dare  not 
say  "  chewing-gum,"  for  we  are  told  that  no  self- 
respecting  American  ever  chews  gum  nowadays! 

The  theatres  I  visited  in  New  York,  Chicago, 
Philadelphia,  New  Orleans,  and  even  in  far-away  San 
Antonio,  Texas,  were  all  comfortable,  well  warmed, 
well  ventilated,  and  excellently  managed,  but  the 
audience    were    certainly    not    so    smart   as    our    own, 


272  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

not  even  at  the  Opera  House  at  New  York,  where 
the  performers  are  the  same  as  in  London,  and  the 
whole  thing  excellently  done,  and  where  it  is  the 
fashion  to  wear  evening  dress  in  the  boxes.  Even 
there  one  misses  the  beauty  of  our  aristocracy,  and 
the  glitter   of  their  tiaras. 

Choosing  a  play  is  no  easy  matter.  Hundreds 
of  things  have  to  be  considered.  Will  it  please  the 
public  ?  Will  it  suit  the  company  .''  If  Miss  So- 
and-So  be  on  a  yearly  engagement  and  there  is  no 
part  for  her,  can  the  theatre  afford  out  of  the  weekly 
profits  of  the  house  to  pay  her  a  large  salary  merely 
as  an  understudy  ?  What  will  the  piece  cost  to 
mount  .''  What  will  the  dramatist  expect  to  be  paid .'' 
This  latter  amount  varies  as  greatly  as  the  royalties 
paid  to  authors  on  books. 

As  nearly  every  manager  has  a  literary  adviser 
behind  his  back,  so  almost  every  actor-manager  has 
a  syndicate  in  the  background.  Theatrical  syndicates 
are  strange  institutions.  They  have  only  come  into 
vogue  since  1880,  and  are  taken  up  by  commercial 
gentlemen  as  a  speculation.  When  gambling  ceases 
to  attract  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  the  theatre  is  an 
exciting  outlet. 

The  actor-manager  consequently  is  not  the  *'  sole 
lessee "  in  the  sense  of  being  the  only  responsible 
person.  He  generally  has  two  or  three  backers,  men 
possessed  of  large  incomes  who  are  glad  to  risk  a 
few  thousand  pounds  for  the  pleasure  of  a  stall  on  a 
first  night,  or  an  occasional  theatrical  supper.  Some- 
times  the  syndicate   does    extremely    well  :    at    others 


SCENE-PAINTING— CHOOSING  A  PLAY     273 

ill  ;  but  that  does  not  matter — the  rich  man  has  had 
his  fun,  the  actor  his  work,  the  critic  his  sneer,  and  so 
the  matter  ends. 

The  actor-manager  draws  his  salary  like  any  other 
member  of  the  company  ;  but  should  the  play  prove 
a  success  his  profits  vary  according  to  arrangement. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  venture  turn  out  a  failure, 
in  the  case  of  the  few  legitimate  actor-managers — 
if  one  may  use  the  term — he  loses  all  the  outgoing 
expenses.  Few  men  can  stand  that.  Ten  thousand 
pounds  have  been  lost  through  a  bad  first  night,  for 
although  some  condemned  plays  have  worked  their 
way  to  success,  or,  at  least,  paid  their  expenses,  that 
is  the  exception  and  by  no  means  the  rule. 

Many  afHrm  there  should  be  no  actor-managers  : 
the  responsibility  is  too  great  ;  but  then  no  man  is 
sure  of  getting  the  part  he  likes  unless  he  manages 
to  secure  it  for  himself. 

Every  well-known  manager  receives  two  or  three 
hundred  plays  per  annum.  Cyril  Maude  told  me  that 
three  hundred  and  fifteen  dramas  were  left  at  the 
Haymarket  Theatre  in  1903,  and  that  he  and 
Frederick  Harrison  had  actually  read,  or  anyway  looked 
through,  every  one  of  them.  They  enter  each  in  a 
book,  and  put  comments  against  them. 

"The  good  writing  is  Harrison's,"  he  remarked, 
"  and  the  bad  scribble  mine  "  ;  but  that  was  so  like  Mr. 
Maude's  modesty. 

After  that  it  can  hardly  be  said  there  is  any  lack 
of  ambition  in  England  to  write  for  the  stage.  The 
extraordinary  thing  is  that  only  about  three  per  cent. 

18 


274  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

of  these  comedies,  tragedies,  burlesques,  or  farces  are 
worth  even  a  second  thought.  Many  are  written 
without  the  smallest  conception  of  the  requirements 
of  the  theatre,  while  some  are  indescribably  bad,  not 
worth  the  paper  and  ink  wasted  on  their  production. 

It  may  readily  be  understood  that  every  manager 
cannot  himself  read  all  the  MSS.  sent  him  for  con- 
sideration, neither  is  the  actor-manager  able  to  see 
himself  neatly   fitted   by  the  parts  written  "  especially  1 

for  him."  Under  these  circumstances  it  has  become 
necessary  of  late  years  at  some  theatres  to  employ 
a  literary  adviser,  as  mentioned  on  the  former  page. 
All  publishing-houses  have  their  literary  advisers,  and 
woe  betide  the  man  who  condemns  a  book  which 
afterwards  achieves  a  great  success,  or  accepts  one  that 
proves  a  dismal  failure  !     So  likewise  the  play  reader. 

Baskets  full  of  dramatic  efforts  are  emptied  by 
degrees,  and  the  few  promising  productions  they 
contain  are  duly  handed  over  to  the  manager  for  his 
final  opinion. 

In  spite  of  the  enormous  number  of  plays  submitted 
yearly,  every  manager  complains  of  the  dearth  of 
suitable  ones. 


CHAPTER   XV 

THEATRICAL  DRESSING-ROOMS 

A  Star's  Dressing-room — Long  Flights  of  Stairs — Miss  Ward  at  the 
Haymarket — A  Wimple — An  Awkward  Predicament — How  an 
Actress  Dresses — Herbert  Waring — An  Actress's  Dressing-table — 
A  Girl's  Photographs  of  Herself — A  Grease-paint  Box — Eyelashes 
— White  Hands — Mrs.  Langtry's  Dressing-room — Clara  Morris  on 
Make-up — Mrs.  Tree  as  Author — "  Resting  " — Mary  Anderson  on 
the  Stage — An  Author's  Opinion— Actors  in  Society. 

AFTER  ascending  long  flights  of  stone  stairs, 
traversing  dreary  passages  with  whitewashed 
walls,  and  doors  on  either  side  marked  one,  two,  or 
three,  we  tap  for  admission  to  a  dressing-room. 

Where  is  the  fairy  pathway  }  where  the  beauty  } — 
ah  !  where  .^  That  long  white  corridor  resembles 
some  passage  in  a  prison,  and  the  little  chambers 
leading  off  it  are  not  very  different  in  appearance 
from  well-kept  convict  cells,  yet  this  is  the  home  of 
our  actors  or  actresses  for  many  hours  each  day. 

In  some  country  theatres  the  dressing-rooms  are 
still  disgraceful,  and  the  sanitary  arrangements  worse. 

Even  in  London  it  is  only  the  "  stars  "  who  have 
an  apartment  to  themselves.  At  such  an  excellently 
conducted  theatre  as  the  Haymarket,  Miss  Winifred 
Emery  has  to  mount  long  flights  between  every  act. 
Suppose  she  has  to  change   her  costume  four    times 

275 


276  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

in  the  play,  she  must  ascend  those  stone  stairs 
five  times  in  the  course  of  each  evening,  or,  in 
other  words,  walk  up  two  hundred  and  fifty  steps 
in  addition  to  the  fatigue  of  acting  and  the  worry  of 
quick  changing,  while  on  matinee  days  this  exertion  is 
doubled.  She  is  a  leading  lady  ;  she  has  a  charming 
little  room  when  she  reaches  it,  and  the  excitement, 
the  applause,  and  the  pay  of  a  striking  part  to  cheer 
her — but  think  of  the  sufferers  who  have  the  stairs 
without  the  redeeming  features.  An  actress  once  told 
me  she  walked,  or  ran,  up  eight  hundred  steps  every 
night  during  her  performance. 

While  speaking  of  dressing-rooms  I  recall  a  visit  I 
paid  to  Miss  Genevieve  Ward  at  the  Haymarket 
during  the  run  of  Caste  (1902).  It  was  a  matinee, 
and,  wanting  to  ask  that  delightful  woman  and  great 
actress  a  question,  I  ventured  to  the  stage  door  and 
sent  up  my  card. 

"  Miss  Ward  is  on  the  stage  ;  but  I  will  give  it  to 
her  when  she  comes  off  in  four  minutes,"  said  the 
stage-door-keeper. 

Accordingly  I  waited  near  his  room. 

The  allotted  time  went  by — it  is  known  in  a  theatre 
exactly  how  long  each  scene  will  take — and  at  the 
expiration  of  the  four  minutes  Miss  Ward's  dresser 
came  to  bid  me  follow  her  up  to  the  lady's  room. 
The  dresser  was  a  nice,  complacent-looking  woman, 
rage  ordinaire,  as  the  French  would  say,  arrayed  in  a 
black  dress  and  big  white  apron. 

Miss  Ward  had  ascended  before  us,  and  was  already 
seated  on  her  little  sofa. 


THEATRICAL   DRESSING-ROOMS      277 

"  Delighted  to  see  you,  my  dear,"  she  exclaimed. 
"  I  have  three-quarters  of  an  hour's  wait,  so  I  hope 
you  will  stay  to  cheer  me  up." 

How  lovely  she  looked.  Her  own  white  hair  was 
covered  by  a  still  whiter  front  wig,  while  added  colour 
had  given  youth  to  her  face,  and  the  darkened  eye- 
lids made  those  wondrous  grey  orbs  of  hers  even 
more  striking. 

'*  Why,  you  look  about  thirty-five,"  I  exclaimed, 
*'  and  a  veritable  grande  dame  !  " 

*'  It  is  all  the  wimple,"  she  said. 

"  And  what  may  that  be  }  " 

"  Why,  this  little  velvet  string  arrangement  from 
my  bonnet,  with  the  bow  under  my  chin  ;  when 
you  get  old,  my  dear,  you  must  wear  a  wimple  too  ; 
it  holds  back  those  double,  treble,  and  quadruple  chins 
that  are  so  annoying,  and  restores  youth — me  voila.'" 

Miss  Ward  was  first  initiated  into  the  mysteries 
and  joys  of  a  wimple  when  about  to  play  in  Becket  at 
the  Lyceum. 

While  we  chatted  she  took  up  her  knitting — being 
as  untiring  in  that  line  as  Mrs.  Kendal.  Miss  Ward 
was  busy  making  bonnets  for  hospital  children,  and 
during  all  those  long  hours  she  waited  in  her 
dressing-room,  this  indefatigable  woman  knitted  for 
the  poor.  After  about  half  an  hour  her  dresser 
returned  and  said : 

"It  is  time  for  you  to  dress,  madame." 

''  Shall  I  leave  V  I  asked. 

"  Certainly  not — there  is  plenty  of  room  for  us 
all  ;  "    and  in  a  moment  the    knitting  was    put  aside, 


278  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

and  her  elaborate  blue  silk  garment  taken  off  and 
hung  on  a  peg  between  white  sheets.  Rapidly  Miss 
Ward  transformed  herself  into  a  sorrowing  mother — 
a  black  skirt,  a  long  black  coat  and  bonnet  were 
placed  in  readiness,  when  lo,  the  dresser,  having  turned 
everything  over,  exclaimed  : 

"  I  cannot  see  your  black  bodice." 

Miss  Ward  looked  perturbed. 

"  I  do  believe  I  have  left  it  at  home — I  went  back 
in  it  last  night,  if  you  remember,  because  I  was  lazy  ; 
and  forgot  all  about  it.  Never  mind,  no  one  will 
see  the  bodice  is  missing  when  I  put  on  my  cloak, 
if  I  fasten  it  tight  up,  and  I  must  just  melt  inside 
its  folds." 

But  when  the  cloak  was  fastened  there  still  appeared 
a  decidedly  decollete  neck.  Time  was  pressing,  the 
*'  call  boy  "  might  arrive  at  any  moment.  Miss  Ward 
seized  a  black  silk  stocking,  which  she  twirled  round 
her  neck,  secured  it  with  a  jet  brooch,  powdered  her 
face  to  make  it  look  more  doleful,  and  was  ready  in 
her  garb  of  woe  ere  the  boy  knocked. 

Then  we  went  down  together. 

These  theatrical  dressers  become  wonderfully  expert. 
I  have  seen  an  actress  come  off  the  stage  after  a  big 
scene  quite  exhausted,  and  yet  only  have  a  few  minutes 
before  the  next  act.  She  stood  in  the  middle  of 
her  dressing-room  while  we  talked,  and  at  once  her 
attendant  set  to  work.  The  great  lady  remained  like  a 
block.  Quickly  the  dresser  undid  her  neck-band,  and 
unhooked  the  bodice  after  removing  the  lace,  took 
away  the  folded  waistband,  slipped  off  the  skirt,  and 


THEATRICAL  DRESSING-ROOMS      279 

in  a  twinkling  the  long  ball  dress  was  over  the  actress's 
head  and  being  fastened  behind.  Her  arms  were 
slipped  into  the  low  bodice,  and  while  she  arranged  the 
jewels  or  her  corsage  the  dresser  was  doing  her  up  at 
the  back.  Down  sat  the  actress  in  a  chair  placed  for 
her,  and  while  she  rouged  more  strongly  to  suit  the 
gaiety  of  the  scene,  the  dresser  was  putting  feathers 
and  ornaments  into  her  hair,  pinning  a  couple  of  little 
curls  to  her  wig  to  hang  down  her  neck,  and  just  as 
they  both  finished  this  rapid  transformation  the  call 
boy  rapped. 

Off  went  my  friend. 

"  I  shall  be  back  in  seven  minutes,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  so  do  wait,  as  I  have  fourteen  minutes'  pause 
then." 

The  dresser  caught  up  her  train  and  her  cloak,  and 
followed  the  great  lady  to  the  wings,  where  I  saw  her 
arranging  the  actress's  dress  before  she  went  on,  and 
waiting  to  slip  on  the  cloak  and  gloves  which  she  was 
supposed  in  the  play  to  come  off  and  fetch. 

A  good  dresser  is  a  treasure,  and  that  is  why  most 
people  prefer  their  own  to  those  provided  at  the 
theatres. 

Apropos  of  knowing  exactly  how  long  an  actor 
is  on  the  stage,  I  may  mention  that  Herbert  Waring 
once  invited  me  to  tea  in  his  dressing-room. 

"  At  what  time  .^^ "  I  naturally  asked. 

"  I'll  inquire  from  my  dresser,"  was  his  reply.  "  I 
really  don't  know  when  I  have  my  longest  *wait.'  " 

Accordingly  a  telegram  arrived  next  day,  which 
said  "tea  4.25,"  so  at  4.25   I  presented  myself  at  the 


28o  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

stage  door,  where  Mr.  Waring's  man  was  waiting 
to  receive  me. 

Others  joined  us.  A  tin  tray  was  spread  with  a 
clean  towel  ;  as  usual,  the  theatrical  china  did  not  match, 
and  the  spoons  and  the  seats  were  insufficient,  but 
the  tea  and  cakes  were  delicious,  and  the  rough-and- 
tumble  means  of  serving  them  in  a  star's  dressing- 
room  only  in  keeping  with  the  usual  arrangements  of 
austere  simplicity  behind  the  scenes. 

"What  was  the  most  amusing  thing  that  ever 
happened  to  you  on  the  stage  ^  " 

Mr.  Waring  looked  perplexed. 

"  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea.  Nothing  amusing 
ever  happens  ;  it  is  the  same  routine  day,  alas,  after  day, 
the  same  dressing,  undressing,  acting,  finishing,  going 
gleefully  home,  and  returning  next  day  to  begin  exactly 
the  same  thing  over  again.  I  must  be  a  very  dull  dog, 
but  I  cannot  ferret  out  anything  '  amusing '  from  the 
back  annals  of  a  long  theatrical  career,"  and  up  he 
jumped  to  slip  on  his  powdered  wig — which  he  had 
removed  to  cool  his  head — and  away  he  ran  to 
entertain  his  audience. 

Mr.  Waring's  amusing  experiences,  or  lack  of  them, 
seem  very  usual  in  theatrical  life.  What  a  delightful 
ma  1  he  is,  and  what  a  gentleman  in  all  his  dealings. 
He  is  always  loved  by  the  companies  with  whom  he 
acts,  and  never  makes  a  failure  with  his  parts. 

The  most  important  thing  in  an  actress's  dressing- 
room  is  her  table — verily  a  curious  sight.  It  is 
generally  very  large,  more  often  than  not  it  is 
composed  of  plain  deal,  daintily  dressed  up  in  muslin 


THEATRICAL   DRESSING-ROOMS      281 

flouncings  over  pink  or  blue  calico.  There  seems  to 
be  a  particular  fashion  in  this  line,  probably  because 
the  muslin  frills  can  go  to  the  wash — a  necessary 
proviso  for  anything  connected  with  the  theatre.  In 
the  middle  usually  reposes  a  large  looking-glass,  and 
as  one  particular  table  is  in  my  mind's  eye,  I  will 
describe  it,  as  it  is  typical  of  many,  and  belonged  to 
a  beautiful  comic-opera  actress. 

The  looking-glass  was  ornamented  with  little  muslin 
frills  and  tucks,  tied  with  dainty  satin  bows,  on  to 
which  were  pinned  a  series  of  the  actress's  own 
photographs.  These  cabinet  portraits  formed  a  per- 
fect garniture,  they  represented  the  lady  in  every 
conceivable  part  she  had  ever  played,  and  were  tied 
together  with  tiny  scarlet  ribbons,  the  foot  of  one 
being  fixed  to  the  head  of  the  next.  The  large  mirror 
over  the  fireplace — for  she  was  a  star  and  had  a  fire- 
place— was  similarly  ornamented,  so  was  the  cheval 
glass,  and  above  the  chimneypiece  was  a  complete 
screen  composed  of  another  set  of  her  own  photographs 
from  another  piece.  These  had  to  stand  up,  so  the 
little  red  bows  which  fixed  them  went  from  side  to 
side,  by  which  means  they  stood  along  the  board  zig- 
zag fashion,  like  a  miniature  screen,  without  tumbling 
down.  She  was  not  in  the  least  egotistical,  it  was 
simply  the  craze  for  photographs,  which  all  theatrical 
folk  seem  to  have,  carried  a  little  further  than  usual, 
and  in  her  own  dressing-room  she  essayed  to  have 
her  own  photographs  galore.  As  she  was  very  pretty 
and  many  of  the  costumes  charming,  she  showed  her 
good  taste. 


282  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

In  front  of  the  looking-glass  was  a  large  pincushion 
stuffed  with  a  multiplication  of  pins  of  every  shape  and 
size,  endless  hat-pins,  safety-pins,  and  little  brooches, 
in  fact,  a  supply  sufficient  to  pin  everything  on  to  her 
person  that  exigency  might  require.  There  were  large 
pots  of  powder,  flat  tablets  of  rouge,  hares'  feet,  for 
putting  on  the  rouge,  fine  black  pencils  for  darkening 
eyes,  blue  chalk  pencils  for  lining  the  lids,  wonderful 
cherry-red  arrangements  for  painting  Cupid's  lips,  for 
even  people  with  large  mouths  can  by  deft  artistic 
treatment  be  made  to  appear  to  have  small  ones. 
There  were  bottles  of  white  liquid  for  hands  and 
neck,  because  it  is  more  important,  of  course,  to 
paint  the  hands  than  the  face,  otherwise  they  are  apt 
to  look  appallingly  red  or  dirty  behind  the  footlights. 

There  were  two  barber's  blocks  on  which  stood  the 
wigs  for  the  respective  acts,  since  it  is  much  quicker 
and  less  trouble  to  put  on  a  wig  than  adjust  one's 
hair,  and  probably  no  one,  except  Mrs.  Kendal,  has 
ever  gone  through  an  entire  theatrical  career  and  only 
twice  donned  a  wig. 

Of  course  there  were  endless  powders  as  well  as 
perfumes  of  every  sort  and  kind.  There  were  hand- 
mirrors  and  three-fold  mirrors,  and  electric  light  that 
could  be  moved  about,  for  it  is  important  to  look 
well  from  all  sides  when  trotting  about  the  stage. 

Theatrical  dressing-rooms  are  so  small  that  the 
dressing-table  is  their  chief  feature,  and  if  there  be 
room  for  a  sofa  or  arm-chair,  they  are  accounted 
luxurious. 

All   the  costumes,  as   a  rule,   are  hung   against  the 


THEATRICAL   DRESSING-ROOMS      283 

wall,  which  is  first  covered  with  a  calico  sheet,  then 
each  dress  is  hung  on  its  own  peg,  over  which  other 
calico  sheets  fall.  This  does  not  crush  them,  keeps 
all  clean,  and  avoids  creases  ;  nevertheless,  the  most 
brilhant  theatrical  costumes  look  like  a  series  of 
melancholy  ghosts  when  not  in  use. 

One  of  the  actress's  most  important  possessions 
is  the  grease  paint-box,  which  in  tin,  separated  into 
compartments  for  paints,  costs  about  ten  and  sixpence. 
Into  these  little  compartments  she  puts  vaseline,  coco 
butter,  Nuceline,  and  Massine  for  cleaning  the  skin. 
For  the  face  has  to  be  washed,  so  to  speak,  with 
grease,  preparatory  to  being  made  up. 

A  fair  woman  first  lays  on  a  layer  of  grease  paint 
of  a  cream  ground.  On  to  that  she  puts  light  carmine 
on  her  cheeks,  and  follows  the  lines. of  her  own  colour 
as  much  as  she  can.  Some  people  have  colour  high 
up  on  the  cheek-bones,  others  low  down,  and  it  is 
as  well  to  follow  this  natural  tint  if  possible. 

She  blue-pencils  round  her  eyes  to  enhance  their 
size,  gets  the  blue  well  into  the  corners  and  down 
a  little  at  the  outside  edges  to  enlarge  those  orbs. 
Then  she  powders  her  face  all  over  to  get  rid  of  that 
look  of  grease  which  is  so  distressing,  and  soften  down 
the  general  make-up,  and  then  proceeds  to  darken 
her  eyelashes  and  eyebrows. 

One  little  actress  told  me  she  always  wound  a  piece 
of  cotton  round  a  hairpin,  on  to  which  she  put  a  blob 
of  cosmetic,  heated  it  in  the  gas  or  candle,  and  when 
it  was  melted,  blinked  her  eyelashes  up  and  down  upon 
it  so  that  they  might  take  on  the  black  without  getting 


2  84  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

it  in  hard  lumps,  but  as  a  level  surface.  She  put 
a  little  red  blob  in  the  corner  of  her  eyes  to  give 
brightness,  and  a  red  line  in  the  nostrils  to  do  away 
with  the  black  cavern-like  appearance  caused  by  the 
strong  lights  of  the  stage. 

"  I  never  make  up  the  lips  full  size,"  she  said,  *'  or 
else  they  look  enormous  from  the  front.  I  put  on 
very  bright  little  '  Cupid's  bow  '  middles,  which  gives 
all  the  effect  that  is  necessary.  After  I  have  powdered 
my  face  and  practically  finished  it,  I  just  dust  on  a  little 
dry  rouge  with  a  hare's  foot  to  get  the  exact  amount 
of  colour  I  wish  for  each  act.  Grease  paints  are 
absolutely  necessary  to  get  the  make-up  to  stay  on 
one's  face,  but  they  have  to  be  well  powdered  down 
or  they  will  wear   greasy." 

"  I  always  think  the  hands  are  so  important,"  1 
remarked. 

'*  Oh  yes,"  she  replied.  "  Of  course,  for  common 
parts,  such  as  servants,  one  leaves  one's  hands  to  look 
red,  for  the  footlights  always  make  them  look  a  dirty 
red,  but  for  aristocratic  ladies  we  have  to  whiten  our 
hands,  arms,  and  neck,  and  I  make  a  mixture  of  my 
own  of  glycerine  and  chalk,  because  it  is  so  much 
cheaper   than  buying  it  ready-made. 

"  Sometimes  it  takes  me  an  hour  to  make  up  my 
face.  You  see,  a  large  nose  can  be  modified  ;  and  a 
small  nose  can  be  made  bigger  by  rouging  it  up  the 
sides  and  leaving  a  strong  white  line  down  the  middle. 
It  is  wonderful  how  one  can  alter  one's  face  with  paint, 
though  I  think  it  is  better  to  make  up  too  little  than 
too  much." 


THEATRICAL   DRESSING-ROOMS      285 

Thus  it  will  be  seen  an  hour  is  quite  a  usual  length 
of  time  for  an  actress  to  sit  in  front  of  her  dressing- 
table  preparatory  to  the  performance. 

Mrs.  Langtry's  dressing-room  at  the  Imperial 
Theatre  may  be  mentioned.  An  enormous  mirror 
is  fastened  against  one  wall,  and  round  it,  in  the 
shape  of  a  Norman  arch,  are  three  rows  of  electric 
lights  giving  different  colour  effects.  The  plain  glass 
is  to  dress  by  in  the  ordinary  way  ;  pink  tones 
give  sunset  and  evening  effect  ;  while  the  third  is 
a  curious  smoked  arrangement  to  simulate  moon- 
light or  dawn.  Dresses  can  be  chosen  and  the  face 
painted  accordingly  to  suit  the  stage  colouring  of  the 
scene.  The  lights  turn  on  above,  below,  or  at  the 
sides,  so  the  effect  can  be  studied  from  every  point 
of  view. 

While  on  the  subject  of  making  up,  a  piece  of  advice 
from  the  great  actor  Jefferson  to  the  wonderful 
American  actress,  Clara  Morris,  is  of  interest  : 

"  Be  guided  as  far  as  possible  by  Nature.  When 
you  make  up  your  face,  you  get  powder  on  your 
eyelashes.  Nature  made  them  dark,  so  you  are  free 
to  touch  the  lashes  themselves  with  ink  or  pomade, 
but  you  should  not  paint  a  great  band  about  your 
.eye,  with  a  long  line  added  at  the  corner  to  rob  it 
of  expression.  And  now  as  to  the  beauty  this  lining 
is  supposed  to  bring,  some  night  when  you  have 
time  I  want  you  to  try  a  little  experiment.  Make 
up  your  face  carefully,  darken  your  brows  and  the 
lashes  of  one  eye  ;  as  to  the  other  eye,  you  must  load 
the  lashes  with  black  pomade,  then  draw  a  black  line 


286  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

beneath  the  eye,  and  a  broad  line  on  its  upper  lid, 
and  a  final  line  out  from  the  corner.  The  result 
will  be  an  added  lustre  to  the  make-up  eye  and  a 
seeming  gain  in  brilliancy  ;  but  now,  watching  your 
reflection  all  the  time,  move  slowly  backwards  from 
the  glass,  and  an  odd  thing  will  happen  ;  that  made-up 
eye  will  gradually  grow  smaller  and  will  gradually 
look  like  a  black  hole,  absolutely  without  expression." 

Clara  Morris  followed  Jefferson's  counsel  and  never 
blued  or  blacked  her  eyes  again. 

I  once  paid  an  interesting  visit  to  a  dressing-room  : 
it  came  about  in  this  wise. 

In  1898  the  jubilee  of  Queen's  College,  in  Harley 
Street,  was  celebrated.  It  was  founded  fifty  years 
previously  as  the  first  college  open  to  women.  A  booklet 
in  commemoration  of  the  event  was  got  up,  and  many 
old  girls  were  persuaded  to  relate  their  experiences. 
Among  them  were  Miss  Sophia  Jex  Blake,  M.D., 
Miss  Dorothea  Beale  (of  Cheltenham),  Miss  Adeline 
Sargent,  the  novelist.  Miss  Louisa  Twining,  whose 
work  on  pauperism  and  workhouses  is  well  known, 
Miss  Mary  Wardell,  the  founder  of  the  Convalescent 
Home,  etc.  Mrs.  Tree  agreed  to  write  an  article 
on  the  stage  as  a  profession  for  women.  At  the  last 
moment,  when  all  the  other  contributions  had  gone 
to  press,  hers  was  not  amongst  them.  It  was  a 
matinee  day,  and  as  editor  I  went  down  to  Her 
Majesty's,  and  bearded  the  delinquent  in  her  dressing- 
room.  She  was  nearly  ready  for  the  performance, 
in  the  midst  of  her  profession,  so  to  speak ;  but 
realising    the    necessity    of    doing    the   work   at    once 


THEATRICAL   DRESSING-ROOMS      287 

or  not  at  all,  she  seized  some  half-sheets  of  paper, 
and  between  her  appearances  on  the  stage  jotted 
down  an  excellent  article.  It  was  clever,  to  the  point, 
and  full  of  learning.  It  appeared  a  few  days  later, 
and  some  critic  was  unkind  enough  to  say  "  her 
husband  or  some  other  man  had  written  it  for  her." 
I  refute  the  charge  ;  for  I  myself  saw  it  hastily 
sketched  in  with  a  pencil  at  odd  moments  on  odd 
scraps  of  paper. 

Mrs.  Tree  is  a  woman  who  would  have  succeeded 
in  many  walks  of  life,  for  she  is  enthusiastic  and 
thorough,  a  combination  which  triumphantly  sur- 
mounts difficulties.  She  has  a  strong  personality. 
In  the  old  Queen's  College  days  she  used  to  wear 
long  aesthetic  gowns  and  hair  cut  short.  Bunches 
of  flowers  generally  adorned  her  waist,  offerings  from 
admiring  young  students,  whom  she  guided  through 
the  intricacies  of  Latin  or  mathematics. 

The  Beerbohm  Trees  have  a  charming  old-fashioned 
house  at  Chiswick,  and  three  daughters  of  various 
and  diverse  ages,  for  the  eldest  is  grown  up  while 
the  youngest  is  quite  small.  Both  parents  are  devoted 
to  reading  and  fond  of  society,  but  their  life  is  one 
long  rush.  Books  from  authors  line  their  shelves, 
etchings  and  sketches  from  artists  cover  their  walls  ; 
both  have  great  taste  with  a  keen  appreciation  of 
genius.  Few  people  realise  what  an  unusually  clever 
couple  the  Beerbohm  Trees  are,  or  how  versatile  are 
their  talents.  They  fly  backwards  and  forwards  to 
the  theatre  in  motor-cars,  and  pretend  they  like  it  in 
spite  of  midnight  wind  and  rain. 


288  BEHIND    THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

Theatrical  work  means  too  much  work  or  none. 
It  is  a  great  strain  to  play  eight  times  a  week,  to  dress 
eight  times  at  each  performance,  as  in  a  Drury  Lane 
drama,  and  to  rehearse  a  new  play  or  give  a  matinee 
performance  as  well,  and  yet  this  has  to  be  done  when 
the  work  is  there,  for  what  one  refuses,  dozens,  aye 
dozens,  are  waiting  eagerly  to  take.  Far  more  actors 
and  actresses  are  "  resting "  every  evening  than  are 
employed  in  theatres,   poor  souls. 

"  Resting  ! "  That  word  is  a  nightmare  to  men 
and  women  on  the  stage.  It  means  dismissal,  it 
means  weary  waiting — often  actual  want — yet  it  is 
called  "  resting."  It  spells  days  of  unrest — days  of 
dreary  anxiety  and  longing,  days  when  the  unfortunate 
actor  is  too  proud  to  beg  for  work,  too  proud  even 
to  own  temporary  defeat  —  which  nevertheless  is 
there. 

A  long  run  of  luck,  the  enjoyment  of  many  months, 
perhaps  years,  when  all  looked  bright  and  sunny,  when 
money  was  plentiful  and  success  seemed  assured, 
suddenly  stops.  There  is  no  suitable  part  available, 
new  blood  is  wanted  in  the  theatre,  and  the  older 
hands  must  go.  Then  comes  that  cruelly  enforced 
'*  rest,"  and,  alas  !  more  often  than  not,  nothing  has 
been  laid  by  for  the  rainy  day,  when  _^io  a  week 
ceases  even  to  reach  los.  Expenses  cannot  easily 
be  curtailed.  Home  and  family  are  there,  the  actor 
hopes  every  week  for  new  work,  he  refuses  to 
retrench,  but  lives  on  that  miserable  farce  *'  keeping 
up  appearances,"  which,  although  sometimes  good 
policy,  frequently  spells  ruin  in  the  end. 


Pliuto  by  Bassaito,  25,  O/d  Bonii  Slnii,  IV. 

MRS.   BEKRBOHM    TREE. 


THEATRICAL   DRESSING-ROOMS      289 

Some  of  the  best  actors  and  actresses  of  the  day 
are  forced  into  this  unfortunate  position  ;  indeed,  they 
suffer  more  than  the  smaller  fry — for  each  theatre 
requires  only  one  or  two  stars  in  its  firmament. 
Theatrical  folk  are  sometimes  inclined  to  be  foolish 
and  refuse  to  play  a  small  part  for  small  pay,  because 
they  think  it  beneath  their  dignity,  so  they  prefer 
to  starve  on  their  mistaken  grandeur,  which  is,  alas  ! 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  unhappy  pride. 

Clara  Morris,  one  of  America's  best-known  actresses, 
shows  the  possible  horrors,  almost  starvation,  of  an 
actress's  early  years  in  her  delightful  volume.  Life  on 
the  Stage. 

She  nearly  died  from  want  of  food,  and  after  years 
and  years  of  work  all  over  the  States  made  her  first 
appearance  as  "  leading  lady  "  at  Daly's  Theatre  in  New 
York  at  a  salary  of  thirty-five  dollars  a  week,  starting 
with  only  two  dollars  (eight  shillings)  in  her  pocket. 

Her  first  triumph  she  discussed  with  her  mother 
and  her  dog  over  a  supper  of  bread  and  cheese.  She 
had  attained  success — but  even  then  it  was  months 
and  months,  almost  years,  before  she  earned  enough 
money  either  to  live  in  comfort  or  be  warmly  clothed. 

The  beautiful  Mary  Anderson,  in  her  introduction 
to  the   volume,  says  : 

*'  I  trust  this  work  will  help  to  stem  the  tide  of 
girls  who  so  blindly  rush  into  a  profession  of  which 
they  are  ignorant,  for  which  they  are  unfitted,  and 
in  which  dangers  unnumbered  lurk  on  all  sides.  If 
with  Clara  Morris's  power  and  charm  so  much  had 
to  be  suffered,  what  is — what  must  be — the  lot  of  so 

19 


290  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

many   mediocrities   who   pass   through    the   same    fires 
to  receive  no  reward  in  the  end  ?  " 

Every  one  who  knows  the  stage,  knows  what 
weary  suffering  is  endured  daily  by  would-be  actors 
who  are  "  resting "  ;  and  as  they  grow  older  that 
"  resting "  process  comes  more  often,  for,  as  one  of 
the  greatest  dramatists  of  the  day  said  to  me  lately  : 

"  The  stage  is  only  for  the  young  and  beautiful, 
they  can  claim  positions  and  salaries  which  experience 
and  talent  are  unable  to  keep.  By  the  time  youth 
has  thoroughly  learnt  its  art  it  is  no  longer  physically 
attractive,  and  is  relegated  to  the  shelf." 

"That  seems  very  hard." 

"  Ah,  but  it  is  true.  At  the  best  the  theatrical 
is  a  poor  profession,  and  ends  soon.  Believe  me, 
it  is  only  good  for  handsome  young  men  and  lovely 
girls.  When  the  bloom  of  youth  has  gone,  good 
acting  does  not  command  the  salary  given  to  beautiful 
inexperience." 

"  How  cruelly  sad  !  " 

"  Perhaps — but  truth  is  often  sad.  When  a  girl 
comes  to  me  and  says  she  has  had  an  offer  of  marriage, 
but  she  doesn't  want  to  give  up  her  Art,  I  reply  : 

"  '  Marry  the  man  before  your  Art  gives  you  up.'  " 

This  was  severe,  but  I  have  often  thought  over 
the  subject  since,  and  seen  how  true  were  the  words 
of  that  man  "  who  knew." 

Half  a  century  ago  only  a  few  favoured  professionals 
were  admitted  into  the  sacred  circle  called  Society, 
and  then  only  on  rare  occasions,  but  all  that  is  now 
changed  :  actors  and  actresses  are  the  fashion,  and  may 


THEATRICAL   DRESSING-ROOMS      291 

be  found  everywhere  and  anywhere.  Their  position 
is  remarkable,  and  they  appear  to  enjoy  society  as 
much  as  society  enjoys  them.  They  arc  feted  and 
feasted,  the  world  worships  at  their  feet.  In  London 
the  position  of  an  actor  or  actress  of  talent  is  a  brilliant 
one  socially. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

HOW  DOES    A    MAN    GET    ON    THE    STAGE? 

A  Voice  Trial — How  it  is  Done — Anxious  Faces — Singing  into  Cim- 
merian Darkness — A  Call  to  Rehearsal — The  Ecstasy  of  an  En- 
gagement— Proof  Copy  ;  Private — Arrival  of  the  Principals — 
Chorus  on  the  Stage — Rehearsing  Twelve  Hours  a  Day  for  Nine 
Weeks  without  Pay. 

"  T  T  OW    does  a   man    get   on    the   stage  ? "   is  a 

jl.  X  question  so  continually  asked  that  the 
mode  of  procedure,  at  any  rate  for  comic  opera, 
may  prove  of  interest. 

After  application  the  would-be  actor-singer,  if  lucky, 
receives  a  card,  saying  there  will  be  a  "  voice  trial " 
for  some  forthcoming  musical  comedy  at  the  theatre 
on  such  a  date  at  two  o'clock.  Managements  that 
have  a  number  of  touring  companies  arrange  voice 
trials  regularly  once  a  week,  but  others  organise  them 
only  when  necessary. 

Let  us  take  a  case  of  Special  Trial  for  some  new 
production.  There  are  usually  so  many  persons 
anxious  to  procure  employment,  that  three  days  are 
devoted  to  these  trials  from  two  till  seven  o'clock. 

Upon  receiving  a  card  the  would-be  artist  proceeds 
to  his  destination  in  a  state  of  wild  excitement  and 
overpowering  nervousness  at  a  quarter  to  two,  having 

392 


STAGE   ASPIRANT  293 

in  the  greenness  of  inexperience  arranged  to  meet 
a  friend  at  three  o'clock,  expecting  by  then  to  be  able 
to  tell  him  he  has  been  engaged. 

On  arriving  at  the  corner  of  the  street  the  youth 
is  surprised  to  see  a  seething  mass  of  struggling 
humanity  striving  to  get  near  the  stage  door  ;  some- 
thing like  a  gallery  entrance  on  a  first  night.  At 
this  spectacle  his  nervousness  increases,  for  he  has 
a  vague  fear  that  some  of  these  voices  and  dramatic 
powers  may  be  better  than  his  own.  During  the 
wait  outside,  people  recognise  and  hail  friends  whom 
they  have  played  with  in  other  companies  on  tour, 
or  met  on  the  concert  platform,  or  perhaps  known 
in  a  London  theatre.  Every  one  tries  to  look 
jaunty  and  gay,  none  would  care  to  acknowledge  the 
cruel  anxiety  they  are  enduring,  or  own  how  much 
depends  on  an  engagement. 

After  half  an  hour,  or  probably  an  hour's  wait,  the 
keen  young  man  reaches  the  stage  door,  and  finally  gets 
into  the  passage.  In  his  eagerness  he  fancies  he  sees 
space  in  that  passage  to  slip  past  a  number  of  people 
who  are  waiting  round  the  door-keeper's  room,  and 
congratulates  himself  on  his  smartness  in  circumventing 
them.  Somehow  he  contrives  to  get  through,  and 
finally  runs  gaily  down  a  flight  of  stairs,  to  find  himself 
— not  on  the  stage,  as  he  had  hoped,  but  underneath 
it.  A  piano  and  voice  are  heard  overhead.  Quickly 
retracing  his  steps  he  mounts  higher  and  higher  in 
his  anxiety  to  be  an  early  performer,  tries  passage  after 
passage,  to  find  nothing  but  dressing-rooms,  until  he 
arrives   breathless  at  the  top  of  the  building  opposite 


2  94  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

two  large  apartments  relegated  later  to  the  chorus. 
Utterly  bewildered  by  the  intricacies  of  the  theatre,  and 
a  sound  of  music  which  he  cannot  locate,  the  poor 
novice  is  almost  in  despair  of  reaching  the  stage  at 
all.  One  more  effort,  and  a  man  who  looks  like  a 
carpenter  remarks  : 

"  These  'ere  is  the  flies,  sir  :  there's  the  stage," 
and  he  points  down  below  over  some  strange 
scaffolding. 

The  singer  looks.  Lo,  there  are  fifty  or  sixty  people 
on  the  stage. 

"  And  those  people  ?  " 

"  All  trying  for  a  job,  sir  ;  but,  bless  yer  'eart,  not 
one  in  twenty  will  get  anything." 

This  sounds  cheerless  to  the  stage  beginner,  whose 
only  recommendation  is  a  good,  well-trained  voice. 

With  directions  from  the  carpenter  he  wends  his 
way  down  again,  not  with  the  same  elastic  step  with 
which  he  bounded  up  the  stairs.  "Bless  yer  'eart, 
not  one  in  twenty  will  get  anything "  was  not  a 
pleasant  piece  of  news. 

Ah,  here  is  a  glass  door,  through  which — oh  joy  ! 
he  sees  the  stage  at  last.  He  is  about  to  enter  gaily 
when  he  is  stopped  by  a  theatre  official  who  demands 
his  "  form." 

"  Form  .''    What  form  ?     I  have  none." 
"Go  back  to  the  stage   door,    sign  your   name   and 
address  there,   and   fill   in   the   printed  form   you  will 
get  there,"  says  this  gentleman  in  stentorian  tones  that 
cause  the  poor  youth  to  tremble  while  he  inquires  : 
"  Where  is  the  stage  door  ?  " 


STAGE   ASPIRANT  295 

"  Up  those  stairs,  first  to  the  right,  and  second  to 
the  left." 

Back  he  goes,  and  after  another  wait,  during  which 
he  notes  many  others  filling  in  forms  one  by  one  and 
asking  endless  questions,  he  gets  the  book,  signs 
his  name,  and  receives  a  form  in  which  he  enters 
name,  voice,  previous  experience^  height,  and  age. 
There  is  also  a  column  headed  "  Remarks,'^  which 
the  would-be  actor  feels  inclined  to  fill  with  superlative 
adjectives,  but  is  informed  that  *'  the  stage  manager 
fills  in  this  column  himself." 

At  last  he  is  on  the  stage,  and  after  all  the  ladies 
have  sung  and  some  of  the  men,  his  name  is  called 
and  he  steps  breezily  down  to  the  footlights.  Ere 
he  reaches  them,  however,  some  one  to  his  left  says  : 

"  Where  is  your  music  } "  and  some  one  else  to 
his  right : 

"Where    is  your  form.?" 

He  hands  the  form  to  a  person  seated  at  a 
table,  and  turning  round  sees  a  very  ancient  upright 
piano,  where  he  gives  his  music  to  the  accompanist. 
Then  comes  a  trying  moment.  The  youth  has 
specially  chosen  a  song  with  a  long  introduction  so 
as  to  allow  time  to  compose  himself.  But  that  in- 
troduction is  omitted,  for  the  accompanist  in  a  most 
inconsiderate  manner  starts  two  bars  from  the  end  of 
it  and  says  : 

"  Now  then,  please,  if  you're  ready." 

The  singer  gets  through  half  a  verse,  when  he  is 
suddenly  stopped  by  : 

"  Sing  a  scale,  please." 


296  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

He  sings  an  octave,  and  is  about  to  exhibit  his 
beautiful  tenor  notes,  when  he  is  again  interrupted 
by  the  question  : 

"  How  low  can  you  go  ?  " 

He  climbs  down,  and  with  some  difficulty  manages 
an  A. 

"  Is  that  as  deep  as  you  can  get  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I'm  a  tenor.  Shall  I  sing  my  high 
notes  ?  " 

A  voice  from  the  front  calls  out,  "  Your  name." 

All  this  is  abruptly  disconcerting,  and  the  lad  peers 
into  Cimmerian  darkness.  In  the  stalls  he  sees  two 
ghost-Uke  figures,  as  "  in  a  glass  dimly."  These 
are  the  manager  and  the  composer  of  the  new  piece, 
while  a  few  rows  behind,  two  or  three  more  spirits 
may  be  noted  flitting  restlessly  about  in  the  light 
thrown  from  the  stage. 

"  Mr.    A "    again    says    that    voice    from    the 

front. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

*'  Did  you  say  you  were  a  tenor  ^  " 

«  Yes." 

"Ah,  I'm  afraid  we've  just  chosen  the  last  one 
wanted.  We  had  a  voice  trial  yesterday,  you  know." 
And  the  tone  sounded  a  dismissal. 

"May  I  not  sing  the  last  verse  of  my  song.^" 
the  young  fellow  almost  gasps. 

"If  you  like."  He  does  like,  and  the  two  figures 
in  front  lean  over  in  conversation  ;  but  he  thinks 
he  detects  a  friendly  nod. 

*'  Have  we  your  address  ^  "   asks  one  of  them. 


STAGE   ASPIRANT  297 

'*  Yes,  sir,  I  left  it  at  the  stage  door." 
"  Thank  you  ;  we'll  communicate  with  you  should 
we  require  your  services."  The  tenor  is  about  to 
murmur  his  thanks,  when  another  voice  from  the 
side  of  the  stage  calls,  "  Mr.  Jones,  please,"  and  he 
hurries  off,  hearing  the  same  questions  from  the  two 
attendant  spirits,  "  Where  is  your  form  ? "  "  Where 
is  your  music  ^  "  addressed  to  the  new-comer. 

Just  as  he  reaches  the  door  he  hears  Mr.  Jones 
stopped  after  three  bars  with  *'  Thank  you,  that  will 
do.     Mr.  Smith,  please." 

This  is  balm  to  his  soul  ;  after  all,  he  was  not 
hurried  off  so  quickly,  and  he  passes  out  into  the 
light  of  day  with  the  "Where  is  your  form  .'^  " 
"Where  is  your  music?"  "Bless  yer  'eart,  not  one 
in  twenty  will  get  anything,"  still  ringing  in  his  ears. 
And  so  to  tea  with  what  appetite  he  may  bring 
at  a  quarter  to  seven  instead  of  three  o'clock  as 
arranged. 

Ten  weary  days  pass — he  receives  no  letter,  hears 
nothing.  He  has  almost  given  up  all  hope  of  that 
small  but  certain  income,  when  a  type-written  missive 
arrives  : 

"  Kindly    attend    rehearsal  at  the Theatre  on 

Tuesday  next  at  twelve  o'clock." 

The  words  swim  before  his  eyes.  Can  it  be  true  ? 
can  he  be  among  the  successful  ones  after  all  ^  He 
is  so  excited  he  is  scarcely  able  to  eat  or  sleep,  waiting 
for  Tuesday  to  come.  It  does  come  at  last,  and' 
he  sets  out  for  the  theatre,  thinking  he  will  not 
betray   further  ignorance,  and  arrives  fashionably  late 


298  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

at  a  quarter  to  one.  This  time  he  sees  no  signs  of 
life  at  the  stage  door. 

"  Of  course,  now  that  I  belong  to  the  theatre, 
I  must  go  in  through  the  front  of  the  house,  not 
at  the  side  entrance,"  he  says  to  himself.  Round, 
therefore,  he  goes  to  the  front,  where  some  one  sitting 
in  the  box  office  asks  : 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  thanks  ;  I  am  going  to  rehearsal." 

"  You're  late.  The  chorus  have  started  nearly  an 
hour." 

Good  chance  here  to  make  an  impression. 

"  Chorus  ?  I'm  a  principal."  This  is  not  quite 
true  at  the  moment,  but  may  be  in  a  year  or 
two. 

"  Principal  ?  Then  you're  too  early,  sir  !  Principals 
won't  be  called  for  another  three  weeks." 

The  tenor  slinks  out  and  goes  round  to  the  stage 
door  again,  where  *'  You're  very  late,  sir,"  is  the 
door-keeper's  greeting.  "  I  should  advise  you  to 
hurry  up,  they  started  some  time  ago.  You'll  find 
them  up  in  the  saloon.  On  to  the  stage,  straight 
through  to  the  front  of  the  house,  and  up  to  the 
back  of  the  circle." 

He  goes  down  on  the  stage,  where  he  finds  the 
same  old  piano  going,  and  some  one  sitting  in  the 
stalls,  watching  a  girl  in  a  blouse  and  flaming  red 
petticoat,  who  is  dancing,  whilst  three  or  four  other 
girls  in  various  coloured  petticoats,  none  wearing 
skirts,  are  waiting  their  turn.  In  the  distance  he  hears 
sounds  of  singing,   which  make  the  most    unpleasant 


STAGE   ASPmANT  299 

discord  with  the  dance  tune  on  the  stage.  The 
accompanist  points  to  an  iron  door  at  the  side,  passing 
through  which  the  youth  finds  himself  outside  another 
door  leading  to  the  stalls,  and,  guided  by  his  ear,  finally 
reaches  the  saloon.  He  enters  unobserved  to  find 
it  filled  with  some  fi^rty  girls  and  men,  standing  or 
sitting  about,  and  singing  from  printed  copies  of 
something.  Sitting  down  he  looks  over  his  neigh- 
bour's shoulder,  and  notices  that  each  copy  has 
printed  on  it  *'  Proof  copy.  Private."  After  half 
an  hour  the  stage  manager,  who  has  been  standing 
near  the  piano,  says : 

"  Thank   you,   ladies  and  gentlemen,  that  will  do  : 

back  in  an  hour,  please.     Is  Mr.  A here  ?     And 

Mr.  A replies  "  Yes,"  and  is   told  to  wait,   and 

asked  why  he  did  not  answer  to  his  name  before. 

'*  I  was  a  little  late,  I  fear." 

"  Don't  be  late  again,  or  I  shall  have  to  fine 
you. 

Off  he  goes  to  luncheon,  and  returns  with  the  rest, 
who  after  a  further  three  hours'  work  are  dismissed 
for  the  day. 

This  goes  on  for  six  hours  a  day,  during  a  fortnight, 
when  the  chorus  is  joined  by  eight  more  ladies  and 
gentlemen  styled  "  Small-part  people,"  who,  how- 
ever, consider  themselves  very  great  people  all  the 
same. 

Next  the  young  man  is  told  that  in  two  days 
every  one  must  be  able  to  sing  without  music,  as 
rehearsals  will  commence  on  the  stage.  In  due  course 
comes  the  first  rehearsal   on    the    stage,    and    after   a 


300  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

couple  of  days  Position^  Gestures^  and  Business  are  all 
taken  up  in  turn. 

The  saloon  is  then  used  by  the  principals,  who  have 
now  turned  up,  and  in  the  intervals  of  rest  the  chorus 
can  hear  sounds  of  music  floating  toward  them. 

In  another  week  the  principals  join  the  company 
on  the  stage,  and  are  told  their  places,  while  all 
principals  read  from  their  parts  at  first,  such  being 
the  etiquette  even  if  they  know  their  lines.  Books 
are  soon  discarded,  however,  and  rehearsals  grow 
rapidly  longer,  while  everything  shows  signs  of  active 
progress  towards  production.  Scenery  and  properties 
begin  to  be  on  view,  and  every  one  is  sent  to  be 
measured  for  costumes,  wigs,  and  boots.  Then  comes 
the  first  orchestral  rehearsal,  and  finally,  a  week  before 
the  production,  night  rehearsals  start  in  addition  to  day, 
so  that  people  positively  live  in  the  theatre  from  11.30 
in  the  morning  till  11.30  at  night  or  later.  Apart 
from  all  the  general  rehearsals  there  are  extra  rehearsals 
before  or  after  these,  for  the  dances. 

There  are  generally  two  or  three  semi-dress  rehearsals, 
followed  by  the  full-dress  rehearsal  on  Friday  after- 
noon at  two  o'clock,  or  sometimes  seven  in  the  evening, 
when  all  the  reserved  seats  are  filled  with  friends  of 
the  management  or  company,  various  professionals  con- 
nected in  any  way  with  the  stage,  and  a  number  of 
artists  and  journalists,  making  sketches  for  the  papers. 
At  the  end  of  each  act  the  curtain  is  rung  up  and 
flash-light  photographs  taken  of  the  effective  situation 
and  t\\ft  finale^  and  so  at  last  the  curtain  rises  on  the  first 
night.     Nine  weeks'  rehearsal  were  given  for  a  comic 


STAGE   ASPIRANT  301 

opera  lately,  and  no  one  was  paid  for  his  or  her 
services  during  all  that  time.  It  only  ran  for  six 
weeks,  when  the  salaries  ceased. 

In  comic  opera  there  are  such  constant  changes,  of 
dialogue,  songs,  and  alterations,  that  the  company  have 
a  general  rehearsal  at  least  once  a  fortnight  on  the 
average,  right  through  the  run  of  a  piece,  and  there 
is  always  an  entire  understudying  company  ready  to 
go  on  at  any  moment. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

A    GIRL  IN  THE  PROVINCES 

Why  Women  go  on  the  Stage — How  to  prevent  it — Miss  Florence 
St.  John — Provincial  Company — Theatrical  Basket — A  Fit-up 
Tour— A  Theatre  Tour — Repertoire  Tour — Strange  Landladies — 
Bills — The  Longed-for  Joint — Second-hand  Clothes — Buying  a 
Part — Why  Men  Deteriorate— Oceans  of  Tea — E.  S.  Willard — Why 
he  Prefers  America — A  Hunt  for  Rooms — A  Kindly  Clergyman — 
A  Drunken  Landlady — How  the  Dog  Saved  an  Awkward  Pre- 
dicament. 

IT   is    continually   being    asked :   "Why   do   women 
crowd  the  stage  ? 

The  answer  is  a  simple  one — because  men  fail  to 
provide  for  them.  If  every  man,  willing  and  able 
to  maintain  a  wife,  married,  there  would  still  be  over 
a  million  women  left.  Many  women  besides  these 
*'  superfluous  "  ones  will  never  marry — many  husbands 
will  die,  and  leave  their  widows  penniless,  and  therefore 
several  millions  of  women  in  Great  Britain  must  work 
to  live.  Their  parents  bring  them  into  the  world, 
but  they  do  not  always  give  them  the  means  of 
livelihood. 

Marriage  with  love  is  entering  a  heaven  with  one's 
eyes  shut,  but  marriage  without  love  is  entering  hell 
with  them  open. 

30a 


A   GIRL   IN    THE   PROVINCES         303 

What  then? 

Women  must  work  until  men  learn  to  protect  and 
provide  for,  not  only  their  wives,  but  their  mothers, 
daughters,  and  sisters.  All  men  should  respect  the 
woman  toiler  who  prefers  work  to  starvation,  as  all 
must  deplore  the  necessity  that  forces  her  into  such 
a  position.  Women  of  gentle  blood  are  the  greatest 
sufferers  ;  brought  up  in  luxury,  they  are  often  thrust  on 
the  world  to  starve  through  no  fault  of  their  own  what 
ever.  The  middle-class  father  should  also  be  obliged  to 
make  some  provision  by  insurance  for  every  baby  girl, 
which  will  enable  her  to  live,  and  give  her  at  least 
the  necessities  of  life,  so  that  she  may  not  be  driven 
to  sell  herself  to  a  husband,  or  die  of  starvation.  The 
sons  can  work  for  themselves,  and  might  have  a  less 
expensive  up-bringing,  so  that  the  daughters  may  be 
provided  for  by  insurance,  if  the  tragedies  of  woman- 
hood now  enacted  on  every  side  are  to  cease. 

It  is  no  good  for  young  men  to  shriek  at  the 
invasion  of  the  labour  market  by  women :  the  young 
men  must  deny  themselves  a  little  and  provide  for  their 
women  folk  if  it  is  to  be  otherwise.  It  is  no  good 
grinding  down  the  wages  of  women  workers,  for  that 
does  harm  to  men  and  women  alike,  and  only  benefits 
the  employer.  Women  must  work  as  things  are,  and 
women  do  work  in  spite  of  physical  drawbacks,  in 
spite  of  political  handicap,  in  spite — too  often — of 
lack  of  sound  education.  The  unfortunate  part  is 
that  women  work  for  less  pay  than  men,  under  far 
harder  conditions,  and  the  very  men  who  abuse  them 
for  competing  on  their  own  ground,  are  the  men  who 


304  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

do  not  raise  a  hand  to  make  provision  for  their  own 
women  folk,  or  try  in  any  way  to  help  the  present 
disastrous  condition  of  affairs. 

Men  can  stop  this  overcrowding  of  every  profession 
by  women  if  they  really  try,  and  until  they  do  so  they 
should  cease  to  resent  a  state  of  affairs  which  they 
themselves  have  brought  about. 

Luckily  there  is  hardly  any  trade  or  profession  closed 
to  women  to-day.  They  cannot  be  soldiers,  sailors, 
firemen,  policemen,  barristers,  judges,  or  clergymen 
in  England,  but  they  can  be  nearly  everything  else. 
Even  now,  in  these  so-called  enlightened  days,  men 
often  leave  what  money  they  have  to  their  sons 
and  let  chance  look  after  their  daughters.  They 
leave  their  daughters  four  alternatives — to  starve, 
to  live  on  the  bitter  bread  of  charity,  to  marry, 
or  to  work.  Independent  means  is  a  heritage  that 
seldom  falls  to  the  lot  of  women.  There  are  too 
many  women  on  the  stage  as  there  are  too  many 
women  everywhere  else  ;  but  on  the  stage  as  in 
authorship,  women  are  at  least  fairly  treated  as 
regards  salary,  and  can  earn,  and  do  earn,  just  as 
much  as  men. 

The  provinces  are  the  school  of  actors  and  actresses, 
so  let  us  now  turn  to  a  provincial  company,  for  after 
all  the  really  hard  work  of  theatrical  life  is  most 
severely  felt  in  the  provinces.  A  pathetic  little  account 
of  early  struggles  appeared  lately  from  the  pen  of 
Miss  Florence  St.  John.  At  fourteen  years  of  age 
she  sang  with  a  Diorama  along  the  South  coast,  and 
a  few  months  after  she   married.     Her  parents  were 


A   GIRL   IN   THE   PROVINCES         305 

so  angry  they  would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
her,  and  not  long  afterwards  her  husband's  health 
failed  and  he  died.  Sheer  want  pursued  her  during 
those  years. 

'*  My  efforts  to  secure  work  seemed  almost  hopeless." 

That  is  the  crux  of  so  many  theatrical  lives.  Those 
eight  words  so  often  appear — and  yet  there  are 
sanguine  people  who  imagine  employment  can  always 
be  obtained  on  the  stage  for  the  mere  asking,  which 
is  not  so  ;  but  let  us  now  follow  the  fortunes  of  a 
lucky  one. 

After  a  play  has  been  sufficiently  coached  in  London, 
at  the  last  rehearsal  a  "  call  "  is  put  up  on  the  board, 
which  says  : 

"  'Train  call.     All  artistes  are  to  be  at Station 

at  o'clock    on    such    and    such    a  date.       Train 

arrives  at  A at  o'clock." 

When  the  actors  reach  the  station  they  find  com- 
partments engaged  for  them,  it  being  seldom  necessary 
nowadays  to  charter  a  private  train.  Those  compart- 
ments are  labelled  in  large  lettering  with  the  name 
of  the  play  for  which  they  have  been  secured.  The 
party  travel  third  class,  the  manager  as  a  rule  reserving 
first-class  compartments  for  himself  and  the  stars. 
Generally  the  others  go  in  twos  and  twos  according 
to  their  rank  in  the  theatre,  that  is  to  say,  the  first 
and  second  lady  travel  together,  the  third  and  fourth, 
and  so  on.  Often  the  men  play  cards  during  the  whole 
journey  ;  generally  the  women  knit,  read,  or  enliven 
the  hours  of  weary  travel  by  making  tea  and  talk ! 

At    each    of  the   stations   where   the    train    pauses 

20 


3o6  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

people  look  into  the  carriages  in  a  most  unblushing 
manner,  taking  a  good  stare  at  the  theatrical  folk,  as 
if  they  were  wild  beasts  at  the  Zoo  instead  of 
human  beings.  Sometimes  also  they  make  personal 
and  uncomplimentary  remarks,  such  as  : 

"  Well,  she  ain't  pretty  a  bit,"  or,  "  My  !  don't  she 
look  different  hoff  and  hon  !  " 

Each  actress  has  two  supplies  of  luggage,  one  of 
which,  namely,  a  '■'■theatrical  basket^''  contains  her  stage 
dresses,  and  the  other  the  personal  belongings  which 
she  will  require  at  her  lodgings.  As  a  rule,  ere  leaving 
London  she  is  given  two  sets  of  labels  to  place  on  her 
effects,  so  that  the  baggage-man  may  know  where  to 
take  her  trunks  and  save  her  all  further  trouble. 

Naturally  theatrical  folk  must  travel  on  Sunday. 
On  a  "  Fit-Up  "  tour,  when  they  arrive  at  the  station 
of  the  town  in  which  they  are  to  play,  each  woman 
collects  her  own  private  property,  and  those  who  can 
afford  the  expense  drive  off  in  a  cab,  while  the  others 
— by  far  the  more  numerous — deposit  it  in  the  "  Left 
Luggage  Office."  After  securing  a  room,  the  tired 
traveller  returns  to  the  station  and  employs  a  porter 
to  deliver  her  belongings. 

Sometimes  a  girl  experiences  great  difficulty  in 
finding  a  suitable  temporary  abode,  for,  although  in 
large  towns  a  list  of  lodgings  can  be  procured, 
in  smaller  places  no  such  help  is  available,  and  she 
may  have  to  trudge  from  street  to  street  to  obtain  a 
decent  room  at  a  cheap  rate.  By  the  time  what  is 
wanted  is  found,  she  generally  feels  so  weary  she  is 
only  too  thankful  to  share  whatever  the  landlady  may 


A   GIRL   IN   THE   PROVINCES         307 

chance  to  have  in  the  way  of  food,  instead  of  going 
out  and  procuring  the  same  for  herself. 

On  a  "  Theatre  Tour  "  the  members  of  a  company 
nearly  always  engage  their  rooms  beforehand  and  order 
dinner  in  advance,  because  they  can  go  to  recognised 
theatrical  lodgings,  a  list  of  which  may  be  procured 
by  applying  to  the  Actors'  Association,  an  excellent 
institution  which  helps  and  protects  theatrical  folk  in 
many  ways.  When  rooms  can  be  arranged  beforehand, 
life  becomes  easier  ;  but  this  is  not  always  possible, 
and  then  poor  wandering  mummers  meet  with  dis- 
agreeable experiences,  such  as  finding  themselves  in 
undesirable  lodgings,  or  at  the  tender  mercy  of  a 
landlady  who  is  too  fond  of  intoxicants.  A  liberal 
use  of  insect  powder  is  necessary  in  smaller  towns. 

A  girl  friend  who  decided  to  go  on  the  stage  has 
given  me  some  valuable  information  gathered  during 
six  or  seven  years'  experience  of  provincial  theatrical 
life.  Hers  are  the  experiences  of  the  novice,  and  bear 
out  Mrs.  Kendal's  advice  in  an  earlier  chapter.  She 
was  not  quite  dependent  on  her  profession,  having 
small  means,  but  for  which  she  says  she  must  have 
starved  many  a  time  during  her  noviciate. 

"  One  comes  across  various  types  of  landladies,"  she 
explained,  "  but  they  are  nearly  always  good-natured, 
otherwise  they  would  never  put  up  with  the  erratic 
hours  for  meals,  and  the  late  return  of  their  lodgers. 
Some  of  them  have  been  actresses  themselves  in  the 
olden  days,  but,  having  married,  they  desire  to  '  lead 
a  respectable  life,'  by  which  remark  they  wish  one  to 
understand  that  the  would-be  lodger  is  not  considered 


3o8  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

*  respectable  '    so  long  as  she  remains  in  the  theatrical 
profession. 

"  They  are  sometimes  very  amusing,  at  others  the 
reminiscences  of  their  own  experiences  prove  a  little 
trying  ;  but  after  all,  even  such  folk  are  better  than 
the  type  of  lodging-house-keeper  who  has  come 
down  in  the  world,  and  is  always  referring  to  her 
'  better  days.'  A  'great  many  of  these  people  do 
not  appear  ever  to  have  had  better  days.  Now 
and  then,  however,  one  finds  a  genuine  case  and 
receives  every  possible  attention,  being  made  happy 
with  flowers — a  real  luxury  when  on  tour — nice  table 
linen,  fresh  towels,  all  things  done  in  a  civilised 
manner,  and  oh  dear !  what  a  joy  it  is  to  come 
across  such  a  home." 

"  Are  the  rooms,  then,  generally  very  bare  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  One  never  finds  any  luxuries.  As  a  rule  one  has 
to  be  content  with  horsehair-covered  chairs  and  sofas, 
woollen  antimacassars,  wax  or  bead  flowers  under  glass 
cases,  often  with  the  addition  of  a  stuff'ed  parrot 
brought  home  by  some  favourite  sailor  son.  But 
simpHcity  does  not  matter  at  all  so  long  as  the  lodgings 
do  not  smell  stufiy.  The  bedroom  furniture  generally 
consists  of  the  barest  necessaries,  and  if  one's  couch 
have  springs  or  a  soft  mattress  it  proves  indeed  a 
delightful  surprise. 

"  There  is  a  terrible  type  of  landlady  who  rushes 
one  for  a  large  bill  just  at  the  last  moment.  As  a 
rule  the  account  should  be  brought  up  on  Saturday 
night  and  settled,  but  this  sort  of  woman  generally 
manages    to    put    off^  producing    hers    until    the   last 


A   GIRL   IN   THE   PROVINCES         309 

moment  on  Sunday  morning,  when  one's  luggage  is 
probably  on  its  way  to  the  station.  Then  she  brings 
forth  a  document  which  takes  all  the  joy  out  of  life, 
and  sends  the  unhappy  lodger  off  without  a  penny  in 
her  pocket.  Arguing  is  not  of  the  slightest  use,  and 
if  one  happens  to  be  a  woman,  as  in  my  case,  she  has 
to  pay  what  is  demanded  rather  than  risk  a  scene." 

My  friend's  experiences  were  so  practical  I  asked 
her  many  questions,  in  reply  to  some  of  which  she 
continued  : 

*'  I  have  always  managed  to  share  expenses  with 
some  one  I  knew,  which  arrangement,  besides  being 
less  lonely,  reduced  the  cost  considerably  ;  but  even 
then  there  is  a  terrible  sameness  about  one's  food. 
An  egg  for  breakfast  is  very  general,  as  some  '  ladies  ' 
even  object  to  cooking  a  rasher  of  bacon.  Jam  and 
other  delicacies  are  beyond  our  means.  Everlasting 
chop  or  steak  with  potatoes  for  dinner.  One  never 
sees  a  joint  ;  it  is  not  possible  unless  a  slice  can  be 
begged  from  the  landlady,  in  which  case  one  often 
has  to  pay  dearly  for  the  luxury. 

«We  generally  have  supper  after  we  return  from 
the  theatre,  from  which  we  often  have  to  walk  home 
a  mile  or  more  after  changing.  Many  landladies 
refuse  to  cook  anything  hot  at  night,  in  which  case 
tinned  tongue  or  potted  meat  suffice  ;  but  a  hot 
meal,  though  consisting  only  of  a  little  piece  of  fish 
or  poached  eggs,  is  such  a  joy  when  one  comes  home 
tired  and  worn  out,  that  it  is  worth  a  struggle  to 
try  to  obtain. 

"  The  least  a  bill  ever  comes  to  in  a  week  is  fifteen 


310  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

shillings,  and  that  after  studying  economy  in  every 
way  possible.  Even  though  two  of  us  lived  to- 
gether I  never  succeeded  in  reducing  my  share  below 
that." 

"  What  is  the  usual  day  ?  " 

*'  One  has  breakfast  as  a  rule  between  ten  and 
eleven — earlier,  of  course,  if  a  rehearsal  has  been  called 
for  eleven,  in  which  case  ten  minutes'  grace  is  given 
for  the  difference  in  local  clocks  ;  any  one  late  after 
that  time  gets  sharply  reprimanded  by  the  management. 
After  rehearsal  on  tour  a  walk  till  two  or  three, 
a  little  shopping,  dinner  4.30,  a  rest,  a  cup  of  tea 
at  6.30,  after  which  meal  one  again  proceeds  to  the 
theatre,  home  about  11.30,  supper  and  bed.  Week 
in,  week  out  it   is  pretty  much  the  same. 

"  For  the  first  four  years  I  only  earned  a  guinea 
a  week,  and  as  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  find  all 
my  own  costumes  for  the  different  parts  in  the 
companies  in  which  I  played,  I  had  to  visit  second- 
hand shops  and  buy  ladies'  cast-off  ball  dresses  and 
things  of  that  sort,  although  cheap  materials  and 
my  sewing  machine  managed  to  supply  me  with  day 
garments.  It  is  extraordinary  what  wonderful  effects 
one  can  get  over  the  foothghts  with  a  dress  which  by 
daylight  looks  absolutely  filthy  and  tawdry,  provided 
it  be  well  cut  ;  that  is  why  it  is  advisable  to  buy 
good  second-hand  clothes  when  possible. 

"  In  my  own  theatre  basket  I  have  fourteen  com- 
plete costumes,  and  with  these  I  can  go  on  any  ordinary 
tour.  I  travelled  for  some  time  with  a  girl  who, 
though  well-born,    had    out  of   her    miserable  guinea 


A   GIRL   IN   THE   PROVINCES         311 

a  week  to  help  members  of  her  family  at  home.  She 
was  an  excellent  needlewoman,  and  used  to  send 
her  sewing-machine  with  her  basket  to  the  theatre, 
where  she  sat  nearly  all  day  making  clothes  or  cutting 
them  out  for  other  members  of  the  company.  By 
these  means  she  earned  a  few  extra  shillings  a  week, 
which  helped  towards  the  expenses  of  her  kinsfolk. 
She  was  a  nice  girl,  but  delicate,  and  I  always  felt 
she  ought  to  have  had  all  the  fresh  air  possible  instead 
of  bending  over  a  sewing-machine  in  a  stuffy  little 
dressing-room. 

"  Of  course  it  is  necessary  for  us  to  take  great  care 
of  our  private  clothes,  and  in  order  to  save  them  I 
generally  keep  an  old  skirt  for  trudging  backwards 
and  forwards  through  the  dust  and  dirt,  and  for  re- 
hearsals, since  at  some  of  the  ill-kept  provincial  theatres 
a  good  gown  would  be  ruined  in  a  few  days  ;  added 
to  which,  one  often  gets  soaked  on  the  way  to  and 
from  the  theatre,  for  we  can  rarely  afford  cabs,  and 
even  if  we  could,  on  a  wet  night  the  audience  take 
all  available  vehicles,  so  that  by  the  time  the 
performers  are  ready  to  leave,  not  one  is  to  be 
procured." 

Perhaps  it  may  be  well  to  say  a  little  more  concerning 
the  theatre  basket.  It  looks  like  a  large  washing 
basket,  but  being  made  of  wicker-work  is  light. 
It  is  lined  inside  with  mackintosh,  and  bears  the 
name  of  the  company  to  which  it  belongs  on  the 
outside.  It  is  taken  to  the  theatre  on  Sunday  when 
the  party  arrives  in  the  town,  and  as  a  rule  each 
actress    goes    first    thing    on     Monday     morning    for 


312  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

rehearsal  and  to  unpack.  The  ordinary  provincial 
company  usually  comprises  about  five  men  and  five 
women,  but  in  important  dramas  there  are  many  more, 
and  sometimes  a  dozen  women  and  girls  will  have  to 
dress  in  one  room. 

Of  course  the  principal  actresses  select  the  best 
dressing-rooms,  and  each  chooses  according  to  her 
rank.  Round  the  wall  of  the  room  a  table  is  fastened, 
such  a  table  as  one  might  find  in  a  dairy,  under 
which  the  dress  baskets  stand.  Those  who  can  afford 
it,  provide  their  own  looking-glass  and  toilet-cover 
to  put  over  their  scrap  of  table,  also  sheets  to 
cover  the  dirty  walls,  ere  hanging  up  their  skirts  ; 
but  as  every  one  cannot  afford  to  pay  for  the 
washing  of  such  luxuries,  many  have  to  dispense 
with  them. 

There  is  seldom  a  green-room  in  the  provinces, 
so  as  a  rule  the  actresses  sit  upon  their  own  baskets 
during  the  waits  ;  and  as  in  many  theatres  there  are 
no  fireplaces  in  these  little  dressing-rooms,  and  not 
always  artificial  heat,  there  they  remain  huddled  in 
shawls  waiting  their  "  call." 

"  The  most  interesting  form  of  company,"  said  my 
friend,  "  is  the  '  Repertoire,'  for  that  will  probably 
give  three  different  pieces  a  week,  which  is  much 
more  lively  than  performing  in  the  same  play  every 
night   for   months. 

"  If  any  one  falls  out  of  the  cast  through  illness 
or  any  other  reason,  and  a  new  man  or  woman  join 
the  company,  a  fortnight  is  required  for  rehearsals, 
and    during    that    fortnight    we    unfortunate    players 


From  n  painting  by  Hii^li  tie  T.  Gluzebiixik. 

MRS.    PATRICK    CAMTBELL. 


A   GIRL   IN   THE   PROVINCES         313 

have    to    give    our    gratuitous  services  every  day  for 
some  hours." 

On  asking  her  whether  she  thought  it  wise  for  a 
girl  to  choose  the  stage  as  a  profession,  she  shook  her 
head  sadly. 

'*  I  do  not  think  a  woman  should  ever  choose  the 
stage  as  a  profession  if  she  have  any  person  depending 
upon  her,  for  it  is  practically  impossible  to  live  on 
one's  precarious  earnings.  It  is  only  the  lucky  few 
who  can  ever  hope  to  make  a  regular  income,  and 
certainly  in  the  provinces  very  few  of  us  do  even  that. 
Many  managers  like  to  engage  husbands  and  wives  for 
their  company,  as  this  means  a  joint  salary  and  a 
saving  in  consequence.  These  married  couples  do 
not  generally  get  on  well,  and  certainly  fail  to  im- 
press one  with  the  bliss  of  professional  wedded 
life." 

"  What  are  the  chances  of  success  ?  "   I  inquired. 

"  The  chances  of  getting  on  at  all  on  the  stage 
are  small  in  these  days,  when  advancement  means  one 
must  either  have  influence  at  headquarters,  or  be  able 
to  bring  grist  to  the  manager's  mill.  It  is  heart- 
breaking for  those  who  feel  they  could  succeed  if 
they  were  but  given  a  chance,  to  see  less  talented  but 
more  influential  sisters  pushed  into  positions.  One 
gradually  loses  all  hope  of  true  merit  finding  its  own 
reward,  while  it  is  no  uncommon  thing  for  a  girl  to 
pay  down  ^20  to  be  allowed  to  play  a  certain  part. 
She  may  be  utterly  unfitted  for  the  role^  but  _^20  is 
not  to  be  scoffed  at,  and  she  is  therefore  pitchforked 
into  it  to  succeed  or  fail.     In  most  cases  she  fails,  and 


314  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

cannot  get  another  engagement  unless  she  produces 
a  second  £20. 

"  No,  I  do  not  consider  the  stage  a  good  profession 
for  a  girl,  simply  because  there  is  no  authority  over 
her,  and  few  people  take  enough  interest  in  the 
young  creature  to  even  warn  her  of  the  peril.  In 
the  theatrical  profession,  and  especially  on  tour,  the 
sexes  meet  on  an  equal  footing.  No  chivalry  need 
be  expected,  and  is  certainly  rarely  received,  because 
when  one  is  vouchsafed  any  little  attention  or  polite- 
ness, such  as  one  would  naturally  claim  in  society  or 
take  for  granted  in  daily  intercourse,  it  is  merely 
because  the  man  has  some  natural  instinct  which  causes 
him  to  be  polite  in  spite  of  adverse  circumstances. 

"  The  majority  of  men  upon  the  stage  to-day  are 
so-called  gentlemen,  but  there  is  something  in  the 
life  which  does  not  conduce  to  keep  them  up  to  the 
standard  from  which  they  start.  They  become  care- 
less in  their  manners,  dress,  and  conversation,  and 
keep  their  best  side  for  the  audience.  As  a  rule  they 
are  kind-hearted  and  willing  to  help  women,  but  men 
upon  the  stage  get  *  petty.'  I  do  not  know  whether 
it  is  the  ejffect  of  the  paint,  the  powder,  and  the 
clothes,  or  the  fact  of  their  doing  nothing  all  day, 
but  they  certainly  deteriorate  ;  one  sees  the  decadence 
month  by  month.  They  begin  by  being  keen  on 
sport,  for  instance,  but  gradually  they  find  even  moving 
their  bicycles  about  an  expense  and  leave  them  behind. 
They  have  nowhere  to  go,  are  not  even  temporary 
members  of  clubs,  so  gradually  get  into  the  habit  of 
staying  in  bed  till  twelve  or  even  two  o'clock  for  lack 


A   GIRL   IN   THE   PROVINCES         315 

of  something  to  interest  them,  and  finish  the  rest  of 
the  day  in  a  '  gin  crawl,'  which  simply  means  sitting 
in  public-houses  drinking  and  smoking. 

"  Unfortunately  this  love  of  drink  sometimes 
increases,  and  as  alcohol  can  be  readily  procured  by 
the  dresser,  men  and  women  too,  feeling  exhausted, 
often  take  things  which  had  better  be  avoideci.  You 
see  their  meals  are  not  sufficiently  substantial — how 
can  they  be  on  the  salary  paid  ?  Girls  live  on  small 
rations  of  bread,  butter,  and  oceans  of  tea,  and 
the  men  on  endless  sausage  rolls  and  mugs  of 
beer." 

This  reminds  me  of  a  little  chat  I  had  with  E. 
S.  Willard.  On  the  fiftieth  night  of  that  excellent 
play  The  Cardinal^  by  Louis  N.  Parker,  at  the 
St.  James's  Theatre,  a  mutual  friend  came  to  ask 
me  to  pay  a  visit  behind  the  stage  to  the  great 
Mr.  Willard. 

We  arrived  in  Mr.  Alexander's  sitting-room  de- 
scribed elsewhere,  at  the  end  of  the  third  act,  and  a 
moment  later  the  rustling  silk  of  the  Cardinal's  robe 
was  heard  in  the  passage. 

"  I'm  afraid  this  is  unkind  of  me,"  I  said  :  ^'  after 
that  great  scene  you  deserve  a  '  whisky  and  soda  ' 
instead  of  a  woman  and  talk." 

'*  Not  at  all,"  said  this  splendid-looking  ecclesiastic, 
seating  himself  gaily.  "  I  never  take  anything  of  that 
sort  till  my  work  is  done." 

"  But  you  must  be  fearfully  exhausted  after  such  a 
big  scene  ?  " 

"  No.     It  is  the  eighth  performance  this  week,  and 


3i6  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

the  second  to-day  ;  but  I'm  not  really  tired,  and  love 
my  work,  although  I  do  enjoy  my  Sunday's  rest." 

Mr.  Willard  looks  handsomer  off  the  stage  than  on. 
His  strong  face  seems  to  have  a  kindlier  smile,  his 
manner  to  be  even  more  courtly,  and  I  was  particu- 
larly struck  with  the  fact  that  he  wore  little  or  no 
make-up. 

"  You  are  an  Englishman,"  I  said,  *'  and  yet  you 
have  deserted  your  native  land  for  America  ?  " 

"  Not  so.  I'm  English,  of  course,  though  I  love 
America,"  was  the  reply.  "Seven  years  ago  I  went 
across  the  Atlantic  and  was  successful,  then  I  had  a 
terrible  illness  which  lasted  three  years.  When  I  was 
better  I  did  not  dare  start  afresh  in  England  and  risk 
failure,  so  I  began  again  in  the  States,  where  I  was 
sure  of  the  dollars.  They  have  been  so  kind  to  me 
over  there  that  I  do  not  now  like  to  leave  them. 
You  see  America  is  so  enormous,  the  constant 
influx  of  emigrants  so  great,  one  can  go  on  playing 
the  same  piece  for  years  and  years,  as  Jefferson  is  still 
doing  in  Rip  van  Winkle.  Here  new  plays  are  con- 
stantly wanted,  and  even  if  an  actor  is  an  old  favourite 
he  cannot  drag  a  poor  play  to  success.  Management 
in  London  has  become  a  risky  matter.  Expenses  are 
enormous,  and  a  few  failures  mean  ruin." 

Alas  !  at  that  moment  the  wretched  little  bell  which 
heralds  a  new  act  rang  forth,  and  I  barely  had  time 
to  reach  the  box  before  Mr.  Willard  was  once  more 
upon  the  stage,  continuing  his  masterly  performance. 
He  is  an  actor  of  strong  personality,  and  can  ill  be 
spared  from  England's  shores. 


A   GIRL   IN   THE   PROVINCES         317 

But  to  return  to  the  provinces,  and  the  experiences 
of  the  pretty  little  actress. 

"  The  familiarity  which  necessarily  exists  between 
the  sexes,"  continued  she,  "  both  in  acting  together 
at  night,  and  rehearsing  together  by  day,  is  in  itself  a 
danger  to  some  girls  who  are  unfortunate  enough  to  be 
thrown  into  close  companionship  with  unprincipled 
men,  and  have  not  sufficient  worldly  wisdom  or 
instinct  to  guard  against  their  advances. 

"  The  idea  of  the  stage  door  being  besieged  by 
admirers  is  far  from  true  in  the  provinces.  With 
musical  comedies  of  rather  a  low  order  there  may  be 
a  certain  amount  of  hanging  about  after  the  per- 
formance, but  in  the  case  of  an  ordinary  company 
this  rarely  happens.  The  real  danger  in  the  provinces 
does  not  come  from  outside. 

"  Life  on  tour  for  a  single  man  is  anything  but 
agreeable.  He  has  no  one  to  look  after  his  clothes, 
for,  needless  to  say,  no  landlady  will  do  that,  and 
therefore  both  his  theatre  outfit  and  his  private 
garments  are  always  getting  torn  and  worn.  As  a 
rule,  however,  there  are  capable  women  in  the  company 
who  are  willing  to  sew  on  buttons,  mend,  or  darn,  and 
if  it  were  not  for  their  good  nature,  many  men  would 
find  themselves  in  sorry  plight." 

She  was  an  intelligent,  clever  girl,  and  I  asked  her 
how  she  got  on  the  stage. 

"  After  having  been  trained  under  a  well-known 
manager  for  six  months  and  paying  him  thirty  guineas 
for  his  services,  I  was  offered  an  engagement  in  one 
of  his  companies  then    starting  for  a  '  Fit-Up  '  tour 


3i8  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

through  Scotland  at  ^Ti  a  week,  payable  in  two 
instalments,  namely,  los.  on  Wednesday  and  lOJ.  on 
Saturday.  Fortunately,  being  a  costume  play,  dresses 
were  provided,  but  I  had  to  buy  tights,  grease-paint, 
sandals,  and  various  ornaments,  give  two  weeks' 
rehearsals  in  London  free,  play  for  three  nights  and 
live  for  three  days  in  Scotland  before  I  received  even 
the  first  ten  shillings. 

"  Happily  I  was  the  proud  possessor  of  small 
means,  and  shared  my  rooms  and  everything  with 
a  girl  friend  who  had  trained  at  the  same  time  as 
myself,  consequently  we  managed  with  great  care 
to  make  both  ends  meet  ;  but  it  was  hard  work 
for  us  even  with  my  little  extra  money,  and  what 
girls  do  who  have  to  live  entirely  on  their  pay,  and 
put  by  something  for  the  time  when  they  are  out 
of  an  engagement,  a  time  which  often  comes,  I  do  not 
pretend   to   know, 

"  A  '  Fit-Up  '  tour  is  admittedly  the  most  expensive 
kind  of  work  for  actors,  because  it  means  that  three 
nights  is  the  longest  period  one  ever  remains  in  any 
town,  most  of  the  time  being  booked  for  '  one-night 
places '  only.  On  this  particular  tour  of  sixteen 
weeks  there  were  no  less  than  sixty  '  one-night  places,' 
and  my  total  salary  amounted  to  £i6. 

"  It  may  sound  ridiculous  to  travel  with  a  dog,  but 
mine  proved  of  the  greatest  use  to  me  on  more  than 
one  occasion.  Our  first  hunt  was  always  for  rooms  ; 
the  term  sounds  grand,  for  the  '  rooms '  generally 
consisted  of  one  chamber  with  a  bed  sunk  into  the 
wall,  as  they  are  to-day  at  a  great  public  school  like 


A   GIRL   IN   THE   PROVINCES         319 

Harrow.  To  crct  to  this  abode  we  sometimes  had 
to  pass  through  the  family  apartments,  a  most  em- 
barrassing proceeding,  as  the  members  had  generally 
retired  to  rest  before  our  return  from  the  theatre ; 
but  still,  '  beggars  cannot  be  choosers,'  and  in  some 
ways  we  often  felt  ourselves  in  that  position. 

"  Supposing  we  arrived  at  a  one-night  place,  we 
would  sally  forth  and  buy 

i  lb.  tea, 

I  lb.  butter, 

I  small  loaf, 

1  lb.  steak  or  chop  for  dinner, 

2  eggs  for  breakfast. 

"  The  landlady's  charge  as  a  rule  for  two  lodgers 
sharing  expenses  varied  from  2s.  6d.  to  3J-.  for  a  single 
night,  or  5J.  for  three  nights,  so  that  the  one-night 
business  was  terribly  extravagant. 

"  Being  our  first  tour  we  were  greatly  interested 
by  the  novelty  of  everything  ;  it  was  this  novelty 
and  excitement  which  carried  us  through.  We 
really  needed  to  be  sharp  and  quick,  for  in  that 
particular  play  we  had  to  change  our  apparel  no  less 
than  six  times.  We  were  Roman  ladies,  slaves,  and 
Christians  intermittently  during  the  evening,  being 
among  those  massacred  in  the  second  act,  and  re- 
suscitated to  be  eaten  by  lions  at  the  end  of  the 
play ;  therefore,  while  the  audience  were  moved  to 
tears  picturing  us  being  devoured  by  roaring  beasts, 
we  were  ourselves  roaring  in  the  wings  in  imitation 
of  those  bloodthirsty  animals. 

"  A  '  Fit-Up '  carries  all  its  own  scenery,  and  nearly 


320  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

always  goes  to  small  towns  which  have  no  theatre,  only 
a  Town  Hall  or  Corn  Exchange,  while  the  dressing- 
rooms,  especially  in  the  latter,  are  often  extremely 
funny,  being  like  little  stalls  in  a  stable,  where  we 
sometimes  found  corn  on  the  floor,  and  could  look 
over  at  each  other  like  horses  in  their  stalls. 

"  The  '  Fit-Up '  takes  its  own  carpenter,  who 
generally  plays  two  or  three  parts  during  the  evening. 
He  has  to  make  the  stage  fit  the  scenery  or  vice 
versd,  and  get  everything  into  working  order  for 
the  evening  performance. 

"  On  one  occasion  we  arrived  at  a  little  town  In 
Scotland  and  started  off  on  our  usual  hunt  for  rooms. 
We  were  growing  tired  and  depressed ;  time  was 
creeping  on,  and  if  we  did  not  obtain  a  meal  and 
rooms  soon,  we  knew  we  should  have  to  go  to  the 
theatre  hungry,  and  spend  that  night  in  the  wings. 
Matters  were  really  getting  desperate  when  we  met 
two  other  members  of  the  company  in  similar  plight. 
One  of  them  was  boldly  courageous,  however,  and 
when  we  saw  a  clergyman  coming  towards  us, 
suggested  she  should  ask  him  if  he  knew  of  any 
likely  place.  She  did  so,  and  he  very  kindly  told 
her  to  mention  his  name  at  an  Inn  where  he  was 
sure  they  would,  if  possible,  put  her  and  her  friend 
up,  but  he  added,  '  There  is  only  one  room.' 
This,  of  course,  did  not  help  my  friend  and  myself,  so 
after  the  two  had  started  off  we  stood  wondering 
what  was  to  become  of  us. 

"  '  Can  you  not  tell  us  of  any  other  place  ? '  we 
asked.     No,  he  could  not,  but  at  this  moment  a  lady 


A   GIRL   IN   THE   PROVINCES         321 

appeared  on  the  scene  who  asked  what  we  wanted. 
We  explained  the  difficulty  of  our  situation,  and  she 
pondered  and  thought,  but  intimated  there  was  no 
lodging  she  could  recommend,  whereupon  we  pro- 
ceeded disconsolately  on  our  way,  not  in  the  least 
knowing  what  we  were  to  do. 

"  A  moment  or  two  afterwards  we  heard  some  one 
running  behind.  It  was  the  clergyman.  Taking  off 
his  hat  and  almost  breathless,  he  exclaimed,  '  My 
wife  wishes  to  speak  to  you,'  and  lo  and  behold  that 
dear  wife  hurried  after  him  to  say  she  felt  so  sorry 
for  the  position  in  which  we  were  placed  that  she 
would  be  very  glad  if  my  friend  and  I  would  give 
her  the  pleasure  of  our  company  and  stay  at  her  house 
for  the  night. 

"  We  went.  She  sent  from  the  vicarage  to  the 
station  for  our  belongings,  and  we  could  not  have 
been  more  kindly  treated  if  we  had  been  her  dearest 
friends.  She  had  a  fire  lighted  in  our  bedroom,  and 
there  were  lovely  flowers  on  the  table  when  we 
returned  from  the  theatre.  They  took  us  for  a 
charming  expedition  to  some  old  ruins  on  the  follow- 
ing morning,  invited  friends  to  meet  us  at  luncheon, 
and  although  they  did  not  go  to  the  theatre  them- 
selves at  night,  they  sat  up  for  us  and  had  a  delightful 
little  supper  prepared  against  our  return. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  the  great  kindness  they  showed 
us.  I  am  sure  there  are  very  few  people  who  would 
be  tempted  to  proffer  such  courtesy  and  hospitality 
to  two  wandering  actresses  ;  and  yet  if  they  only  knew 
how  warmly  their  goodness  was  appreciated  and  how 

21 


32  2  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

beneficent  its  influence  proved,   they  would  feel  well 
repaid. 

"  In  the  afternoon  when  it  was  time  to  leave,  rain 
was  pouring  down,  but  that  fact  did  not  deter  the 
clergyman  from  accompanying  us  to  the  station, 
carrying  an  umbrella  in  one  hand  and  a  bag  in  the 
other,  while  his  little  son  followed  with  a  great  bunch 
of  flowers. 

"  As  if  to  take  us  down  after  such  luxurious 
quarters,  we  fell  upon  evil  days  at  the  very  next 
town,  where  we  were  told  it  was  difiicult  to  get 
accommodation  at  all,  and  therefore  made  up  our  minds 
to  take  the  first  we  met.  It  did  not  look  inviting, 
but  the  woman  said  that  by  the  time  we  had  done 
our  shopping  she  would  have  everything  clean  and 
straight.  We  bought  our  little  necessaries,  and  as  the 
door  was  opened  by  a  small  boy  handed  them  in  to 
him,  saying  we  were  going  for  a  walk  but  would  be 
back  in  less  than  an  hour  for  tea.  On  our  return  we 
were  admitted,  but  saw  no  signs  of  tea,  so  rang  the 
bell.  No  one  came.  We  waited  ten  minutes  and 
rang  again.  A  pause.  Suddenly  the  door  was  burst 
open  and  in  reeled  the  landlady,  who  banged  down 
a  jug  of  boiling  water  on  the  table  and  departed. 
We  gazed  at  each  other  in  utter  consternation,  feeling 
very  much  frightened,  for  we  both  realised  she  was 
drunk. 

"We  rang  again  after  a  time,  but  as  no  one 
attempted  to  answer  our  summons,  and  it  being  im- 
possible to  make  a  meal  off  hot  water,  I  crept  forth 
to  reconnoitre.     There   was   not  a   soul    to    be    seen, 


A   GIRL   IN   THE   PROVINCES        323 

not  even  the  little  boy,  but  I  ventured  into  the  kitchen 
to  try  if  I  could  not  find  the  bread,  butter,  and  tea, 
so  that  we  might  prepare  something  to  eat  for  our- 
selves. While  so  engaged  a  sonorous  sound  made 
me  turn  round,  and  there  upon  the  floor  with  her 
head  resting  upon  a  chair  in  the  corner  of  the  room 
lay  our  landlady,  dead  drunk.  It  was  an  appalling 
sight.  We  gathered  our  things  together  as  quickly 
as  we  could  and  determined  to  leave,  put  a  shilling 
on  the  table  to  appease  the  good  woman's  wrath 
when  she  awoke,  and  were  glad  to  shake  the  dust 
of  her  home  from  our  feet. 

"  Not  far  off  was  a  Temperance  Hotel,  the  sight 
of  which  after  our  recent  experience  we  hailed  with 
delight,  and  where  we  engaged  a  bedroom,  to 
which  we  repaired,  when  our  evening's  work  was 
finished. 

"  My  dog,  who  always  lay  at  the  foot  of  my  bed, 
woke  us  in  the  middle  of  the  night  by  his  low  growls. 
He  seemed  much  perturbed,  so  we  lay  and  listened. 
The  cause  of  his  anxiety  soon  became  clear  ;  sotne  one 
was  trying  to  turn  the  handle  of  the  door,  while  the 
voices  of  two  men  could  be  heard  distinctly,  one  of 
which  said  : 

"  '  Only  two  actresses,  go  on,'  and  then  the  door 
handle  turned  again  and  his  friend  was  pushed  in. 
It  was  all  dark,  but  at  that  moment  my  dog's  growls 
and  barks  became  so  furious  and  angry  as  he  sprang 
from  the  bed  that  the  man  precipitately  departed, 
and  we  were  left  in  peace,  although  too  nervous  to 
sleep. 


324  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

"  Of  course  we  complained  next  morning,  but 
equally  of  course  the  landlady  knew  nothing  about 
the  matter.  These  were  our  best  and  worst  experiences 
during  my  first  tour." 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

PERILS    OF   THE    STAGE 

Easy  to  Make  a  Reputation — Difficult  to  Keep  One — The  Theatrical 
Agent — The  Butler's  Letter — Mrs.  Siddons'  Warning — Theatrical 
Aspirants — The  Bogus  Manager — The  Actress  of  the  Police  Court 
— Ten  Years  of  Success — Temptations — Late  Hours — An  Actress's 
Advertisement — A  Wicked  Agreement — Rules  Behind  the  Scenes 
— Edward  Terry — Success  a  Bubble. 

MANKIND  curses  bad  luck,  but  seldom  blesses 
good  fate.  It  is  comparatively  easy  to  make 
a  reputation  once  given  a  start  by  kindly  fate  ;  but 
extremely  difficult  to  maintain  one  in  any  vt^alk  of 
life,  and  this  applies  particularly  to  the  stage. 

Happening  to  meet  a  very  pretty  girl  who  had 
made  quite  a  hit  in  the  provinces  and  was  longing 
for  a  London  engagement,  I  asked  her  what  her 
experience  of  theatrical  agents  had  been. 

"  Perfectly  horrible,"  she  replied,  "  and  heart- 
breaking into  the  bargain.  For  three  whole  months 
I  have  been  daily  to  a  certain  office,  and  in  all 
this  weary  time  I  have  only  had  five  interviews  with 
the  manager." 

"  Is  it  so  difficult  to  get  work  }  " 

"  It  is  almost  impossible.  When  I  arrive,  the  little 
stuffy  office  is  more  or  less  crowded  ;  there  are  women 

325 


326  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

seeking  engagements  for  the  music  halls,  fat,  common, 
vulgar  women  who  laugh  loud  and  make  coarse  jokes  ; 
there  are  sickly  young  men  who  want  to  play  lovers' 
parts  on  the  legitimate  stage,  and  who,  according 
to  the  actors'  habit,  never  take  their  hats  off.  It  is 
a  strange  fact  that  actors  invariably  rehearse  in  hats 
or  caps,  and  sit  in  them  on  all  occasions  like  Jews 
in  synagogues. 

"  There  are  children  who  come  alone  and  wait 
about  daily  for  an  engagement,  children  who  have 
been  employed  in  the  pantomime,  and  whose  parents 
are  more  or  less  dependent  on  their  gains,  and  there 
is  one  girl,  she  is  between  thirteen  and  fourteen,  whom 
I  have  met  there  every  day  for  weeks  and  weeks. 
Seventy-four  days  after  the  pantomime  closed  she 
was  still  without  work,  and  I  watched  that  child  get 
thinner  and  paler  time  by  time  as  she  told  me  with 
tears  in  her  eyes  she  was  the  sole  support  of  a  sick 
mother. 

"  When  I  go  there,  the  gentleman  who  has  the  office 
makes  me  shrivel  up, 

"  '  Do  you  specialise  ^ '  he  asks,  peeping  over  the 
edge  of  his  gold-rimmed  spectacles.  He  jots  down  my 
replies  on  a  sheet  of  paper.  '  Character  or  juvenile 
parts  ^  '  he  inquires.  '  What  salary  ?  Whom  have 
you  played  with .?  '  And  having  made  these  and  other 
inquiries  he  looks  through  a  series  of  books,  turns  over 
the  pages,  says,  '  I  am  sorry  I  have  nothing  for  you 
to-day,  you  might  look  in  again  to-morrow.'  And 
this  same  farce  or  tragedy  is  repeated  every  time." 

"  But  is  it  worth  while  going  ^  "  I  asked. 


PERILS   OF   THE   STAGE  327 

"  Hardly ;  one  wears  out  one's  shoe-leather  and 
one's  temper  ;  and  yet  after  all  the  theatrical  agent  is 
practically  my  only  chance  of  an  engagement.  This 
man  is  all  right,  he  is  not  a  bogus  agent,  but  he 
simply  has  a  hundred  applicants  for  every  single 
post  he  has  to  fill." 

She  went  back  day  after  day,  and  week  after  week, 
and  each  time  the  same  scene  was  enacted,  but  no 
engagement  came  of  it.  Finally,  brought  to  the  verge 
of  starvation,  she  had  to  accept  work  again  in  the 
provinces,  and  so  desert  an  invalid  father.  She 
happened  to  be  a  lady,  but  of  course  many  applicants 
for  histrionic  fame  ought  to  be  kitchen-maids  or 
laundry-maids  :  they  have  no  qualifications  whatever 
to   any  higher  walk  of  life. 

Below  is  an  original  letter  showing  the  kind  of 
person  who  wants  to  go  on  the  stage.  It  was  sent 
to  one  of  our  best-known  actresses  when  she  was 
starring  with  her  own  company. 

"...  Castle 
"  Oct  \<^th  1897 
"  Dear  Madam 

"  i  writ  you  this  few  lins  to  see  if  you  would 
have  a  opening  for  me  as  i  would  be  an  Actor  on  the 
Stage  for  my  hole  thought  and  life  is  on  the  stage 
and  when  i  have  any  time  you  will  always  feind  me 
readin  at  some  play  i  make  a  nice  female  as  i  have  a 
very  soft  voice  Dear  Madam  i  hop  you  will  not 
refuse  me  i  have  got  no  frends  alive  to  keep  me  back 
and  every  one  tells  me  that  you  would  make  the  best 
teacher  that  i  could  get     Dear  ladyi  again  ask  you 


328  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

not  to  refuse  me  i  will  go  on  what  ever  termes  you 
think  best  i  have  been  up  at  the  theatre  4  times 
seeing  you  i  enclose  my  Card  to  let  you  see  it  plese 
to  send  it  back  again  and  i  enclose  12  stamps  to  you 
to  telegraf  by  return  if  you  would  like  to  see  me  or 
if  you  would  like  to  come  down  to  the  Castle  to  see 
me     No  more  at  present 

"  but  remans   your 

"  Obedient  servant 

"Peter  W ." 

This  was  a  letter  from  a  man  with  aspirations,  and 
below  is  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Siddons.  If  this  actress, 
whose  position  was  probably  the  grandest  and  greatest 
of  any  woman  on  the  stage,  can  express  such  senti- 
ments, what  must  be  the  experiences  of  less  successful 
players  ? 

"  Mrs.  Siddons  presents  her  compliments  to  Miss 
Goldsmith,  &  takes  the  liberty  to  inform  her,  that 
altho'  herself  she  has  enjoyed  all  the  advantages  arising 
from  holding  the  first  situation  in  the  drama,  yet  that 
those  advantages  have  been  so  counterbalanced  by 
anxiety  &  mortification,  that  she  long  ago  resolved 
never  to  be  accessory  to  bringing  any  one  into  so 
precarious  &  so  arduous  a  profession." 

The  deterrent  words  of  Mrs.  Siddons  had  little 
effect  in  her  day,  just  as  the  deterrent  words  of  those 
at  the  top  of  the  profession  have  little  effect  now. 
Consequently,  not  only  does  the  honest  agent  flourish, 


PERILS    OF   THE   STAGE  329 

but  the  bogus  agent  and  bogus  manager  grow  rich 
on  the  creduHty  of  young  men  and  women. 

Speaking  of  the  bogus  manager,  Sir  Henry  Irving 
observed  : 

"  The  actor's  art  is  thought  to  be  so  easy — in  fact, 
many  people  deny  it  is  an  art  at  all — and  so  many 
writers  persistently  assert  no  preparation  is  needed  for 
a  career  upon  the  stage,  that  it  is  little  wonder  deluded 
people  only  find  out  too  late  that  acting,  as  Voltaire 
said,  is  one  of  the  most  rare  and  difficult  of  arts. 
The  allurements,  too,  held  forth  by  unscrupulous 
persons,  who  draw  money  from  foolish  folk  under  the 
pretence  of  obtaining  lucrative  engagements  for  them, 
help  to  swell  very  greatly  the  list  of  unfortunate 
dupes.  I  hope  that  these  matters  may  in  time  claim 
the  attention  of  serious-minded  persons,  for  the  in- 
creasing number  of  theatrical  apphcants  for  charity, 
young  persons,  too,  is  little  less  than  alarming." 

This  remark  of  Sir  Henry's  is  hardly  surprising 
when  below  is  a  specimen  application  received  by  the 
manager  of  a  London  suburban  theatre  from  a  female 
farm  servant  in  Essex  : 

"Deer  sur, — I  works  hon  a  farm  but  wants  to 
turn  actin.  Would  lik  ingagement  for  the  pantomin 
in  hany  ways  which  you  think  I  be  fit  for.  I  sings 
in  the^hurch  coir  and  plais  the  melodion.  I  wants 
to  change  my  work  for  the  stage,  has  am  sik  of  farm 
wark,  eas  last  tater  liftin  nigh  finished  me." 

Another  was  written  in  an  almost  illegible  hand 
which  ran  : 


330  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

"  Honoured  Sir, — i  wants  to  go  on  the  staige 
i  am  a  servent  and  my  marster  sais  i  am  a  good  smart 
made  so  i  wod  like  to  play  act  mades  parts  untill  i 
can  do  laidies  i  doant  mind  wages  for  a  bit  as  i  like 
your  acting  i'd  like  to  act  in  your  theter  so  i  am  going 
to  call  soon." 

Truly  the  assurance  of  people  is  amazing  ;  to  imagine 
they  can  enter  the  theatrical  profession  without  even 
common  education  is  absurd.  Only  lately  another 
stage-struck  servant  appeared  in  the  courts.  Although 
an  honest  girl,  she  was  tempted  to  steal  from  her  mis- 
tress to  pay  ^3  7 J",  to  an  agent  for  a  problematical 
theatrical  engagement.     She  is  only  one  of  many. 

One  day  a  woman  stood  before  a  manager.  She 
had  been  so  persistent  for  days  in  her  desire  to  see 
him,  and  appeared  so  remarkable,  that  the  stage  door- 
keeper at  last  inquired  if  he  might  admit  her. 

"  Please,  sir,  I  wants  to  be  an  actress,"  she  began, 
on   entering  the  manager's  room. 

"  Do  you?     And  what  qualifications  have  you  .''  " 

*'  I'm  a  cook." 

"  That,  my  good  woman,  will  hardly  help  you  on 
the    stage." 

"  And  I've  been  to  the  the-a-ters  with  my  young 
man — I'm  keeping  company  with  'im  ye  know, 
and " 

"  Well,  well." 

"  And  'e  and  I  thinks  you  ain't  got  the  right  tone 
of  hactress  for  them  parts.  Now  I'm  a  real  cook  I 
am,  and  I  don't  wear   them  immoral   'igh    'eels,    and 


PERILS   OF  THE   STAGE  331 

tiny  waists,  I  dresses  respectable  I  do,  and  I'd  just 
give  the  right  style  to  the  piece.  My  pal — she's  a 
parlourmaid  she  is — could  do  duchesses  and  them  like 
— she's  the  air  she 'as — but  I  ain't  ambitious,  I'd  just 
like  to  be  what  I  am,  and  show  people  'ow  a  real 
cook  should  be  played — Lor'  bless  ye,  sir,  I  don't 
cook  in  diamond  rings." 

That  manager  did  not  engage  the  lady ;  but  he 
learnt  a  lesson  in  realism  which  resulted  in  Miss 
FitzClair  being  asked  to  dispense  with  her  rings  on 
the  stage  that  night. 

With  a  parting  nod  the  "  lady  "  said  as  she  left  the 
door : 

"  Your  young  man  don't  make  love  proper  neither, 
you  should  just  see  'ow  'Arry  makes  love  you  should, 
he'd  make  you  all  sit  up,  I  know,  he  does  it  that 
beautiful  he  do — your  man's  a  arf-'arted  bloke  'e 
is,  seems  afraid  of  the  gal,  perhaps  it's  'er  'igh  'eels 
and  diamonds   'e's  afraid  of,  eh  ?  " 

The  lady  took  herself  off. 

These  are  only  a  few  instances  to  show  how  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  people  are  stage-struck.  That 
delightful  man  Sir  Walter  Besant  lay  down  an  excellent 
rule  for  young  authors,  "Never  pay  to  produce  a 
book " — it  spells  ruin  to  the  aspirant.  The  same 
may  be  said  of  the  stage.  Never  part  with  money  to 
get  on  the  stage.  It  may  be  advisable  to  accept  a  little 
if  one  cannot  get  much  ;  but  never,  never  to  pay 
for  a  footing.  Services  will  be  accepted  while  given 
free  or  paid  for,  and  dispensed  with  when  the  time 
comes  for  payment  to  be  received. 


332  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

Among  the  many  temptations  of  stage  life  is  drink. 
The  actor  feels  a  little  below  par,  he  has  a  great  scene 
before  him,  and  while  waiting  in  his  dressing-room 
for  the  ''  call  boy  "  he  flies  to  a  glass  of  whiskey  or 
champagne.  He  gets  through  the  trying  ordeal,  comes 
off  the  boards  excited  and  streaming  at  every  pore, 
flings  himself  into  a  chair,  and  during  the  time 
his  dresser  is  dragging  him  out  of  his  clothes,  or 
rubbing  him  down,  yields  to  the  temptation  of  another 
glass.  Many  of  our  actors  are  most  abstemious, 
though  more  than  one  prominent  star  has  been 
known  to  mumble  incoherently  on  the  stage. 

Matinee  days  are  always  a  strain  for  every  one  in 
the  theatre,  and  there  are  people  foolish  enough  to 
think  a  httle  stimulant  will  enable  them  to  get  through, 
not  knowing  a  continuance  of  forced  strength  spells 
damnation. 

Yes.  The  stage  is  surrounded  by  temptations. 
Morally,  extravagantly,  and  alcoholically  the  webs  of 
excess  are  ready  to  engulf  the  unwary,  and  therefore, 
when  people  keep  straight,  run  fair,  and  save  their 
pennies,  they  are  to  be  congratulated,  and  deserve 
the  approbation  of  mankind.  He  who  has  never 
been  tempted,  is  not  a  hero  in  comparison  with  the 
man  who  has  turned  aside  from  the  enticing  wiles 
of  sin. 

There  is  a  certain  class  of  woman  who  continually 
appears  in  the  police  courts,  described  as  an  "  actress." 
She  is  always  "  smartly  dressed,"  and  is  generally  up 
before  the  magistrate  or  judge  for  being  "  drunk  and 
disorderly  " — suing  her  husband  or  some  one  else  for 


PERILS   OF   THE   STAGE  333 

maintenance — or  claiming  to  have  some  grievance  for 
a  breach  of  promise  or  lost  jewellery. 

These  "ladies  "  often  describe  themselves  as  actresses  : 
and  perhaps  they  sometimes  are  ;  but  if  so  they  are  no 
honour  to  their  profession.  There  is  another  stamp  of 
woman  who  becomes  an  actress  by  persuading  some 
weak  man  to  run  a  theatre  for  her.  Sympathy  between 
men  and  women  is  often  dangerous.  She  generally 
ends  by  ruining  him,  and  he  in  running  away  from 
her.  These  bogus  actresses,  with  their  motor  cars 
and  diamonds,  are  more  dangerous  and  certainly  more 
attractive  than  the  bogus  manager.  They  are  the 
vultures  who  suck  young  men's  blood.  They  are 
the  flashy,  showy  women  who  attract  silly  servant-girls 
with  the  idea  the  stage  spells  wealth  and  success  ; 
but  they  are  the  scourge  of  the  profession. 

Good  and  charming  women  are  to  be  found  upon 
the  stage.  Virtue  usually  triumphs  ;  they  are  happy  in 
their  home  life,  devoted  to  their  children,  sympathetic 
to  their  friends,  and  generous  almost  to  a  fault.  The 
leading  actresses  are,  generally  speaking,  not  only  the 
best  exponents  of  their  art,  but  the  best  women  too. 
The  flash  and  dash  come  to  the  police  courts,  and 
end  their  days  in  the  workhouse. 

The  stage  at  best  means  very,  very  hard  work,  and 
theatrical  success  is  only  fleeting  in  most  cases.  It 
must  be  seized  upon  when  caught  and  treated  as  a 
fickle  jade,  because  money  and  popularity  both  take 
wings  and  fly  away  sooner  than  expected.  In  all 
professions  men  and  women  quickly  reach  their  zenith, 
and  if  they  are  clever  may  hold  that  position  for  ten 


334  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

years.  After  that  decline  is  inevitable  and  more  rapid 
than  the  ascent  has  been. 

If  a  reputation  is  to  be  made,  it  is  generally  achieved 
by  either  man  or  woman  before  the  age  of  forty. 
By  fifty  the  summit  of  fame  is  reached,  and  the 
downward  grade  begun.  One  can  observe  this  again 
and  again  in  every  profession. 

A  great  actor,  doctor,  lawyer,  writer,  or  painter  has 
ten  years  of  success,  and  if  he  does  not  provide  for 
his  future  during  those  ten  years,  'tis  sad  for  him. 
As  the  tide  turns  on  the  shore,  so  the  tide  turns  on 
the  careers  of  men  and  women  alike. 

Public  life  is  not  necessarily  bad.  In  the  first 
place,  it  is  only  the  man  with  strong  individuality 
who  can  ever  attain  publicity.  He  must  be  above 
the  ordinary  ruck  and  gamut,  or  he  will  never  receive 
public  recognition.  If,  therefore,  he  is  stronger  than 
his  brother,  he  should  be  stronger  also  to  resist 
temptation,  to  disdain  self-love  or  vainglory.  The 
moment  his  life  becomes  public  he  is  under  the 
microscope,  and  should  remember  his  influence  is 
great  for  good  or  ill.  Popular  praise  is  pleasant, 
but  after  all  it  means  little  ;  one's  own  conscience 
is  the  thing,  that  alone  tells  whether  we  have  given 
of  our  best  or  reached  our  ideal.  The  true  artist  is 
never  satisfied,  therefore  the  true  artist  never  suffers 
from  a  swelled  head  ;  it  is  the  minor  fry  who  enjoy 
that  ailment. 

The  temptations  behind  the  footlights  are  enormous. 
It  is  useless  denying  the  fact.  One  may  love  the 
stage,  and  count  many  actors  and  actresses  among  one's 


PERILS   OF   THE    STAGE  335 

friends ;    but    one    cannot    help    seeing    that   theatrical 
life  is  beset  by  dangers  and  pitfalls. 

Young  men  and  women  alike  are  run  after  and 
fawned  upon  by  foolish  people  of  both  sexes.  Morally 
this  is  bad.  Actors  are  flattered  and  worshipped  as 
though  they  were  little  gods.  This  in  itself  tends 
to  evoke  egotism.  The  gorgeous  apparel  of  the 
theatre  makes  men  and  women  extravagant  in  their 
dress  ;  the  constant  going  backwards  and  forwards  in 
all  weathers  inclines  them  to  think  they  must  save 
time  or  themselves  by  driving  ;  the  fear  of  catching 
cold  makes  them  indulge  in  cabs  and  carriages  they 
cannot  affbrd,  and  extravagance  becomes  their  besetting 
sin.  Every  one  wants  to  look  more  prosperous  than 
his  neighbour,  every  recipient  of  forty  shillings  a  week 
wishes  the  world  to  think  his  salary  is  forty  pounds. 

Apart  from  pay,  the  life  is  exacting.  The  leaders 
of  the  profession  seldom  sup  out  :  they  are  tired 
after  the  evening's  work,  and  know  that  burning  the 
candle  at  both  ends  means  early  extinction,  but  the 
Tottie  Veres  and  Gladys  Fitz-Glynes  are  always  ready 
to  be  entertained. 

The  following  advertisement  appeared  one  day  in 
a  leading  London  paper : 

"  Stage.— I  am  nearly  eighteen,  tall,  fair,  good-looking, 
have  a  little  money,  and  wish  to  adopt  the  stage  as  a 
profession.     Engagement  wanted." 

What  was  the  result  ?     Piles  of  letters,  containing 

all  sorts  of  offers  to  help   Miss  A to  her  doom. 

A  certain  gentleman  wrote  from  a  well-known  fashion- 


336  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

able  club,  the  letter  being  marked  Private,  saying  :  "  I 
should  like  if  possible  to  assist  you  in  your  desire  to 
go  on  the  stage,  but  I  am  not  professional  myself  in 
any  way.  This  is  purely  a  matter  in  which  I  might  be 
happy  to  take  an  interest  and  assist,  if  you  think 
proper  to  communicate  with  me  by  letter,  stating 
exactly  the  circumstances,  and  when  I  can  have  an 
interview  with  you  on  the  subject."  This  letter 
might  be  capable  of  many  interpretations.  The  gentle- 
man might,  of  course,  have  been  purely  philanthropic 
in  his  motives  ;  we  will  give  him  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt. 

Others  were  yet  more  strange  and  suggestive  of 
peril  for  the  girl  of  eighteen. 

What  might  have  been  the  end  of  all  this  ^  Sup- 
posing Miss  A had  granted  an  interview  to  No.  I. 

Supposing  further  he  had  advanced  the  money  for  the 
novice  to  buy  an  engagement,  what  might  have  proved 
her  fate  }  She  would  have  been  in  his  clutches — 
young,  inexperienced,  powerless,  in  the  hands  of  a 
man  who,  if  really  philanthropic,  could  easily  have 
found  persons  needing  interest  and  assistance  among 
his  own  immediate  surroundings,  instead  of  going  wide 
afield  to  dispense  his  charity  and  selecting  for  the 
purpose  an  unknown  girl  of  eighteen  who  innocently 
stated  she  was  good-looking. 

Miss  Genevieve  Ward,  a  woman  who  has  climbed 
to  the  top  of  her  profession,  allows  me  to  tell  the 
following  little  story  about  herself  as  a  warning  to 
others,  for  it  was  only  her  own  genius — a  very  rare 
gift — which  dragged  her  to  the  front. 


By  permission  oj  IV.  Boiighton  S-  So)!s,  P/io/ograp/iers,  Loiuesloft. 


MR.  GEORGE   GROSSMITH. 


PERILS   OF   THE   STAGE  337 

When  she  first  came  to  England,  with  a  name 
already  well  established  in  America,  expecting  an 
immediate  engagement,  she  could  not  get  work  at  all. 
She  applied  to  the  best-known  theatrical  agents  in 
London.  Day  after  day  she  went  there,  she  a  woman 
in  her  prime  and  at  the  top  of  her  profession,  and  yet 
she  was  unable  to  obtain  work. 

"  Tragedy  is  dead,  Miss  Ward,"  exclaimed  Mr. 
B .  "  Young  women  with  fine  physical  develop- 
ments are  what  we  want." 

It  was  not  talent,  not  experience,  that  were  required 
according  to  this  well-known  agent,  but  legs  and 
arms — a  poor  standard,  truly,  for  the  drama  of  the 
country. 

However,  at  last  there  came  a  day,  after  many  weary 
months  of  waiting,  when  some  one  was  wanted  to  play 
tragedy  at  Manchester.  It  was  only  a  twelve  weeks' 
engagement,  and  the  pay  but  ^^8  a  week.  It  was 
a  ridiculous  sum  for  one  in  Miss  Ward's  position  to 
accept,  but  she  was  worn  out  with  anxiety,  and 
determined  not  to  go  back  to  America  and  own  herself 
vanquished  ;  therefore  she  accepted  the  oflfer,  paid  the 
agent  heavily,  and  went  to  Manchester,  where  she 
played  for  twelve  weeks  as  arranged.  Before  many 
nights  had  passed,  however,  she  had  signed  a  further 
engagement  at  double  the  pay.  Her  chance  in 
England  had  come  and  she  had  won. 

If  such  delay,  such  misery,  such  anxiety  can 
befall  those  whose  position  is  already  established, 
and  whose  talents  are  known,  what  must  await  the 
novice  ^ 

22 


338  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

*'  I  suppose  I  have  kept  more  girls  off  the  stage 
than  any  living  woman,"  said  Miss  Ward.  "  Short, 
ugly,  fat,  common,  hopeless  girls  come  to  me  to  ask 
my  advice.  There  is  not  one  in  twenty  who  has  the 
slightest  chance,  not  the  very  slightest  chance,  of 
success.  Servants  come,  dressmakers,  wives  of  military 
men,  daughters  of  bishops  and  titled  folk.  The  mania 
seems  to  spread  from  high  to  low,  and  yet  hardly  one  of 
them  has  a  voice,  figure,  carriage,  or  anything  suitable 
for  the  stage,  even  setting  dramatic  talent  aside." 

*'  What  do  you  say  to  them  ?  " 

"  Tell  them  right  out.  I  think  it  is  kinder  to  them, 
and  more  generous  to  the  drama.  '  Mind  you,'  I  say,  *  I 
am  telling  you  this  for  your  own  good  ;  if  I  consulted 
personal  profit  I  should  take  you  as  a  pupil  and  fill 
my  pocket  with  your  guineas  ;  but  you  are  hopeless, 
nothing  could  possibly  make  you  succeed  with  such  a 
temperament,  or  voice,  or  size,  or  whatever  it  may 
be,  so  you  had  better  turn  your  attention  at  once  to 
some  other  occupation.'  " 

I  have  known  several  cases  in  which  Miss  Ward  has 
been  most  kind  by  helping  real  talent  gratuitously  ; 
many  of  the  women  on  the  stage  to-day  owe  their 
position  to  her  timely  aid. 

"  Warn  girls,"  she  continued,  "  when  asked  for  a 
bonus,  never,  never  to  give  one." 

It  is  no  uncommon  thing  for  a  bogus  agent  to  ask 
for  a  _^io  bonus,  and  promise  to  secure  an  engagement 
at  _^i  a  week.  That  engagement  is  never  procured, 
or,  if  it  be,  lasts  only  during  rehearsals — which  are  not 
paid  for — or  for  a  couple  of  weeks,  after  which  the  girl 


PERILS   OF   THE   STAGE  339 

is  told  she  does  not  suit  the  part,  and  dismissed.  Thus 
the  matter  ends  so  far  as  a  triumphal  stage  entry  is 
concerned. 

It  may  be  well  here  to  give  an  actual  case  of  bonus 
as  an  example. 

A  wretched  girl  signed  an  agreement  to  the  follow- 
ing effect.  She  was  to  pay  ^20  down  to  the  agent 
as  a  fee,  to  provide  her  own  dresses  and  travelling 
expenses,  and  to  play  the  first  four  months  without 
any  salary  at  all.  At  the  expiration  of  that  time 
she  was  to  receive  lOJ,  a  week  for  six  months, 
with  an  increase  of  ^i  a  week  for  the  following 
year. 

On  this  munificent  want  of  salary  the  girl  was  ex- 
pected to  pay  rent,  dress  well  for  the  stage,  have  good 
food  so  as  to  be  able  to  fulfil  her  engagements  properly, 
attend  endless  rehearsals,  and  withal  consider  herself 
fortunate  in  obtaining  a  hearing  at  all.  She  broke 
the  engagement  on  excellent  advice,  and  the  agent 
wisely  did  not  take  action  against  her,  as  he  at  first 
threatened  to  do. 

In  the  sixties  Edward  Terry  essayed  the  stage. 
Seeing  an  advertisement,  the  future  comedian  offered 
his  services  at  a  salary  of  15 J.  a  week. 

Above  the    door    was    announced  in    grand    style  : 

"  Madame  Castaglione's  Dramatic  Company,  taking 
advantage  of  the  closing  of  the  Theatres  Royal  Covent 
Garden,  Drury  Lane,  Lyceum,  etc.,  will  appear  at 
Christchurch  for  six  nights  only." 

It  was  an  extraordinary  company,  in  which  several 
parts  were  acted  by  one  person  during  the  same  evening. 


340         BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

There  was  only  one  play-book,  from  which  every 
actor  copied  out  his  own  part,  no  one  was  ever  paid, 
and  general  chaos  reigned.  Edward  Terry  had  fallen 
into  the  hands  of  one  of  the  most  notorious  bogus 
managers  of  his  time.  His  next  engagement  was  more 
lucrative.  He  was  always  sure  of  playing  eighteen 
parts  a  week,  and  sometimes  received  20s.  in  return. 
Matters  are  better  now  ;  but  strange  stories  of  early 
struggle  crop  up  occasionally,  and  the  bogus  manager- 
agent,  in  spite  of  the  Actors'  Association  and  the 
Benevolent  Fund,  still  exists. 

Edward  Terry  had  to  fight  hard  in  order  to 
attain  a  position,  and  thoroughly  deserves  all  the 
success  that  has  fallen  to  his  lot  ;  but  all  stage 
aspirants  are  not  Edward  Terrys,  and  then  their 
plight  in  the  hands  of  the  bogus  agent  is  sad 
indeed,  especially  in  the  provinces  where  he  flourishes. 

Those  who  know  the  stage  only  from  the  front 
of  the  house  little  realise  the  strict  regulations  enforced 
behind  the  scenes  in  our  first-class  London  theatres, 
the  discipline  of  which  is  almost  as  severe  as  that  of  a 
Government  office.  Each  theatre  has  its  code  of  rules 
and  regulations,  which  generally  number  about  twenty, 
but  are  sometimes  so  lengthy  they  are  embodied  in 
a  handbook.  These  rules  and  regulations  have  to 
be  signed  by  every  one,  from  principal  to  super, 
and  run  somewhat  in  this  wise  : 

"  The  hair  of  the  face  must  be  shaven  if  required 
by  the  exigencies  of  the  play  represented." 

"  All  engagements  to  be  regarded  as  exclusive,  and 
no    artiste   shall   appear   at    any  other  theatre  or  hall 


PERILS   OF   THE   STAGE  341 

without  the  consent  in  writing  of  the  manager  or  his 
representative." 

"  All  artistes  engaged  are  to  play  any  part  or  parts  for 
which  they  may  be  cast,  and  to  understudy  if  required." 

"  In  the  event  of  the  theatre  being  closed  through 
riot,  fire,  public  calamity,  royal  demise,  epidemic,  or 
illness  of  principal,  no  salary  shall  be  claimed  during 
such  closing." 

A  clause  in  a  comic  opera  agreement  ran  : 

"  No  salary  will  be  payable  for  any  nights  or  days 
on  which  the  artiste  may  not  perform,  whether 
absenting  himself  by  permission,  or  through  illness, 
or  any  other  unavoidable  cause,  and  should  the  artiste 
be  absent  for  more  than  twelve  consecutive  perform- 
ances under  any  circumstances  whatever,  this  engage- 
ment may  be  cancelled  by  the  manager  without  any 
notice  whatsoever." 

Thus  it  will  be  seen  an  engagement  even  when 
obtained  hangs  on  a  slender  thread,  and  twelve  days' 
illness,  although  an  understudy  may  step  in  to  take 
the  part,  threatens  dismissal  for  the  unfortunate 
sufferer. 

Of  course  culpable  negligence  of  the  rules  may  be 
punished  by  instant  dismissal,  but  for  ordinary  offences 
fines  are  levied,  in  proportion  to  the  salary  of  the 
offender.  Sometimes  a  fine  is  sixpence,  sometimes 
a  guinea,  but  an  ordinary  one  is  half  a  crown  "  for 
talking  behind  the  scenes  during  a  performance." 
Some   people  are  always   being  fined. 

In  the  case  of  legitimate  drama  the  actor  is  not 
permitted  to  "  build  up  "  his  part  at  his  own  sweet  will ; 


342         BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

in  comic  opera,  however,   "  gagging  "  and  "  business  " 
have  often  gone  far  to  make  success. 

The  upholder  of  law  and  order  behind  the  scenes 
is  the  stage  manager.  If  power  gives  happiness  he 
should  be  happy,  but  his  position  is  such  a  delicate 
one,  and  tact  so  essential,  that  it  is  often  difficult  for 
him  to  be  friendly  with  every  one  and  yet  a  strict  and 
impartial  disciplinarian. 

Life  is  a  strange  affair.  We  all  try  to  be  alike  in 
our  youth,  and  individual  in  our  middle  age.  As 
we  grow  up  we  endeavour  to  shake  ourselves  out  of 
that  jelly-mould  shape  into  which  school  education 
forces  us,  although  we  sometimes  mistake  eccentricity 
for  individuality.  Just  as  much  real  joy  comes  to  the 
woman  who  has  darned  a  stocking  neatly  or  served  a 
good  dinner,  as  is  vouchsafed  by  public  praise  ;  just 
as  much  pleasure  is  felt  by  the  man  who  has  helped 
a  friend,  or  steered  a  successful  bargain.  In  the 
well-doing  is  the  satisfaction,  not  in  indiscriminate  and 
ofttimes  over-eulogistic  applause. 

Stage  aspirants  soon  learn  those  glorious  press  notices 
count  for  naught,  and  they  cease  to  bring  a  flutter  to 
the  heart. 

Success  is  but  a  bubble.  It  glistens  and  attracts 
the  world  as  the  soap  globe  glistens  and  attracts  the 
child.  It  is  something  to  strive  for,  something  to 
catch,  something  to  run  after  and  grasp  securely  ; 
yet,  after  all,  what  is  it  ?  It  is  but  a  shimmer — 
the  bubble  bursts  in  the  child's  hand,  the  glistening 
particles  are  nothing,  the  ball  once  gained  is  gone. 
Is   not  success    the    same  ?       We  long  for,  we  strive 


PERILS  OF   THE   STAGE  343 

to  attain  our  goal,  and  then  find  nothing  but 
emptiness. 

If  we  are  not  satisfied  with  ourselves,  if  we  know 
our  best  work  has  not  yet  been  attained,  that  we 
have  not  reached  our  own  high  standard,  worldly 
success  has  merely  pricked  the  bubble  of  ambition, 
that  bubble  we  had  thought  meant  so  much  and  which 
really  is  so  little.  People  are  a  queer  riddle.  One 
might  liken  them  to  flowers.  There  are  the  beautiful 
roses,  the  stately  lilies,  the  prickly  thorns  and 
clinging  creepers  ;  there  are  the  weeds  and  poisonous 
garbage.  Society  is  the  same.  People  represent 
flowers.  Some  live  long  and  do  evil,  some  live  a 
short  while  and  do  good,  sweetening  all  around  them 
by  the  beauty  of  their  minds.  Our  friends  are  like 
the  blooms  in  a  bouquet,  our  enemies  like  the  weeds 
in   our  path. 

What  diversified  people  we  like.  This  woman 
excites  our  admiration  because  she  is  beautiful,  that 
one  because  she  is  clever,  yon  lady  is  sympathetic,  and 
the  trend  of  the  mind  of  the  fourth  stimulates  our 
own.  They  are  absolutely  dissimilar,  that  quartette, 
we  like  them  all,  and  yet  they  have  no  points  in 
common.  It  does  us  good  to  be  with  some  people, 
they  have  an  ennobling,  refining,  or  softening  efi^ect 
upon  us — it   does  us    harm    to   be  with  others. 

And  so  we  are  all  many  people  in  one.  We  adapt 
ourselves  to  our  friends  as  we  adapt  our  clothes  to 
the  weather.  We  expand  in  their  sunshine  and  frizzle 
up  in  their  sarcasm.  We  are  all  actors.  All  our 
life   is   merely   human    drama,    and    imperceptibly    to 


344         BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

ourselves  we  play  many  parts,  and  yet  imagine  during 
that  long  vista  of  years  and  circumstances  we  are 
always  the  same. 

We  act — you  and  I — but  we  act  ourselves,  and 
the  professional  player  acts  some  one  else  ;  but  that 
is  the  only  difference,  and  it  is  less  than  most  folk 
imagine. 

Love  of  the  stage  is  the  fascination  of  the  mysterious, 
which  is  the  most  insidious  of  all  fascinations. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

''CHORUS  GIRL  NUMBER  II.  ON  THE  LEFT'' 

H  ifantas^  3Fount)e5  on  ifact 

Plain  but  Fascinating — The  Swell  in  the  Stalls — Overtures — Persis- 
tence— Introduction  at  Last — Her  Story — His  Kindness— Happi- 
ness crept  in— Love — An  Ecstasy  of  Joy—  His  Story — A  Rude 
Awakening — The  Result  of  Deception — The  Injustice  of  Silence 
— Back  to  Town — Illness — Sleep. 

THE  curtain  had  just  risen  ;  the  orchestra  was 
playing  the  music  of  the  famous  operetta  Penso^ 
when  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life  in  a  handsome  fur 
coat  entered  the  stalls.  He  was  alone.  Having  paid 
for  his  programme  and  taken  off  his  furs,  he  quietly 
sat  down  to  survey  the  scene. 

The  chorus  was  upon  the  stage  ;  sweeping  his  glasses 
from  end  to  end  of  the  line  of  girls  upon  the  boards, 
his  eyes  suddenly  lighted  upon  the  second  girl  on  the 
left.  She  was  not  beautiful.  She  had  a  pretty  figure, 
and  a  most  expressive  face  ;  but  her  features  were 
irregular  and  her  mouth  was  large.  Far  more  lovely 
girls  stood  in  that  row,  many  taller,  with  finely  chiselled 
features  and  elegant  figures,  but  only  that  girl — 
Number  II.  on  the  Left — caught  and  riveted  his  at- 
tention.    He  looked  and  looked  again.     What  charm 

345 


346         BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

did  she  possess,  he  wondered,  which  seemed  to  draw 
him  towards  her  ?  She  was  singing,  and  making  little 
curtsies  like  the  others  in  time  to  the  music  :  she  was 
waving  her  arms  with  those  automatic  gesticulations 
the  chorus  learn  ;  she  was  smiling,  and  yet  behind  it  all 
he  seemed  to  see  an  unutterable  sadness  in  the  depths 
of  her  dark  grey  eyes.  The  girl  fascinated  him  ;  he 
listened  not  to  the  music  of  Penso,  he  hardly  looked 
at  any-  one  else  ;  so  long  as  Number  II.  on  the  Left 
remained  upon  the  stage  his  entire  thoughts  were  with 
her.  She  enchained,  she  almost  seemed  to  hypnotise 
him,  and  yet  she  seldom  looked  his  way.  During  the 
entracte  Allan  Murray  went  outside  to  try  and  dis- 
cover the  name  of  Number  II.  on  the  Left.  No  one, 
however,  was  able  to  tell  him,  or  if  they  were,  they 
would  not. 

Disappointed  he  returned  to  his  seat  in  time  for  the 
second  act.  She  had  changed  her  dress,  and  the  new 
one  was  perhaps  less  becoming  than  the  first. 

"  She  is  not  pretty,"  he  kept  repeating  to  himself, 
"  but  she  is  young.  She  is  neither  a  great  singer  nor  a 
dancer,  but  she  is  a  gentlewoman." 

So  great  was  the  fascination  she  had  exerted  over  the 
man  of  the  world,  that  he  returned  the  next  night  to  a 
seat  in  the  stalls,  and  as  he  gazed  upon  the  operetta  he 
felt  more  than  ever  convinced  that  there  was  some 
great  tragedy  lying  hidden  behind  the  smiling  face  of 
Number  II.  on  the   Left.     He  desired  to  unravel  it. 

A  short  time  before  Christmas,  being  absolutely 
determined  to  find  out  who  she  was,  he  succeeded  in 
worming  the  information  from  some  one  behind  the 


'« CHORUS   GIRL  NUMBER   11."        347 

scenes.  Her  real  name  was  Sarah  Hopper — could 
anything  be  more  hideous  i* — her  professional  one 
Alwyn  FitzClare — could  anything  be  more  euphonious  ? 
He  went  off  to  his  club  after  one  of  the  performances 
was  over,  and  wrote  her  a  note.  Days  went  by  and  he 
received  no  answer.  Then  he  purchased  some  beauti- 
ful flowers  and  sent  them  to  the  stage  door  for  Miss 
Alwyn  FitzClare  with  his  compliments.  Still  no 
answer ;  but  in  the  meantime  he  had  been  back  to  the 
theatre,  and  had  been  even  more  struck  than  before  with 
the  appearance  of  the  girl,  and  felt  sorry  for  the  look 
of  distress  he  thought  he  saw  lurking  behind  her 
smiles. 

It  was  now  two  days  before  Christmas,  and  writing 
her  a  note  begging  her  not  to  take  it  amiss  from  a 
stranger,  who  wished  her  a  very  pleasant  Christmas, 
he  enclosed  two  five-pound  notes,  hoping  she  would 
drink  his  health  and  remember  she  had  given  great 
pleasure  to  one  of  her  audience. 

Christmas  morning  brought  him  back  the  two  notes 
with  a  formal  stiff  little  letter,  saying  that  Miss 
FitzClare  begged  to  return  her  thanks  and  was  quite 
unable  to  accept  gifts  from  a  stranger. 

For  weeks  and  weeks  he  occupied  a  stall  at  the 
theatre,  whenever  he  had  an  off-night.  He  continued 
to  write  little  notes  to  Miss  Alwyn  FitzClare,  but  never 
received  any  reply.  However,  at  last  he  ventured 
to  beg  that  she  would  grant  him  an  interview.  If 
she  would  only  tell  him  where  she  came  from,  or  give 
him  an  inkling  of  her  position,  he  would  find  some 
means  to  obtain  a  formal  introduction.     She  answered 


348  BEHIND  THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

this  letter  not  quite  so  stiffly  as  the  former  one  con- 
taining the  bank-notes,  and  stated  that  she  came  from 
Ipswich.  Time  passed  ;  he  succeeded  in  gaining  an 
introduction,  and  sent  it  formally  to  Number  II.  on  the 
Left.  At  the  same  time  he  invited  her  to  lunch  with 
him  at  a  famous  restaurant.  She  accepted  ;  she  came 
out  of  curiosity,  she  ultimately  vowed,  although  in 
spite  of  the  introduction,  and  in  spite  of  the  months 
of  persuasion  on  his  part,  she  felt  doubtful  as  to  the 
wisdom  of  doing  so. 

The  girl  who  had  looked  plain  but  interesting  upon  the 
stage,  appeared  before  him  in  a  neat  blue  serge  costume, 
well  fitting  and  undecorated,  and  struck  Mr.  Murray 
as  very  much  better  looking,  and  smarter  altogether 
in  the  capacity  of  a  private  person  than  she  did  in 
the  chorus.  "A  gentlewoman  '*  was  writ  big  all  over 
her.  No  one  could  look  at  her  a  second  time  and  not 
feel  that  she  was  well  born. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "I  often  have  funny 
letters  from  people  on  the  other  side  of  the  footlights  ; 
but  yours  is  the  only  one  I  ever  answered  in  my  life. 
Tell  me  why  you  have  been  so  persistent  ^ " 

"  Because  of  the  trouble  in  your  face,"  he  answered. 

"  In  mine  ^  But  I  am  always  laughing  on  the 
stage — that  is  part  of  the  duty  of  the  chorus." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  you  laugh  outwardly  ;  but  you 
cry  inwardly.  It  was  your  sad  expression  which  first 
attracted  my  attention." 

He  was  very  sympathetic  and  very  kind,  and 
gradually  she  told  him  her  story.  Her  father  had 
been  a  solicitor  of  good  birth.  He  had  a  large  practice, 


"CHORUS   GIRL  NUMBER   II."        349 

but  dying  suddenly  left  a  family  of  nine  children,  all 
under  the  age  of  twenty,  practically  unprovided  for, 
for  the  small  amount  for  which  his  life  was  insured 
soon  dwindled  away  in  meeting  the  funeral  expenses 
and  settling  outstanding  bills. 

"  I  was  not  clever  enough  to  become  a  governess," 
she  said,  "  I  had  not  been  educated  for  a  secretary — in 
fact,  I  had  no  talent  of  any  sort  or  kind  except  the 
ability  to  sing  a  little.  Luck  and  hard  work  brought 
me  the  chance  of  being  able  to  earn  a  guinea  a  week 
on  the  stage,  out  of  which  I  manage  to  live  and 
send  home  a  shilling  or  so  to  help  mother  and  the 
children." 

It  was  a  tragic  little  story — one  of  many  which  a  great 
metropolis  can  unfold,  where  men  bring  children  into 
the  world  without  giving  a  thought  to  their  future, 
and  leave  them  to  be  dragged  up  on  the  bitter  bread  of 
charity,  or  to  work  in  that  starvation-mill  which 
so  many  well-born  gentlewomen  grind  year  after 
year. 

The  rich  gentleman  and  Number  II.  on  the  Left 
became  warm  friends.  Months  went  by  and  they  often 
met.  She  lunched  with  him  sometimes  ;  they  spent 
an  occasional  Sunday  on  the  river,  and  she  wrote  to 
him,  and  he  to  her,  on  the  days  when  they  did  not 
meet.  She  was  very  proud  ;  she  would  accept  none  of 
his  presents,  she  would  not  take  money,  and  was 
always  most  circumspect  in  her  behaviour.  Gradually 
that  sad  look  melted  away  from  her  eyes,  and  a  certain 
beauty  took  its  place.  He  was  kind  to  her,  and  by 
degrees,  little    by    little,    the    interest  aroused  by  her 


350  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

mournful  expression  deepened — as  it  disappeared — into 
love.  She,  on  her  side,  looked  upon  him  as  a  true 
friend,  practically  the  only  disinterested  friend  she  had 
London  ;  and  so  time  wore  on,  bringing  happiness  to 
both  :  neither  paused  to  think.  Her  life  was  a  happy 
one.  She  grew  not  to  mind  her  work  at  the  theatre,  or 
the  sewing  she  did  for  the  children  at  home,  sitting 
hour  by  hour  alone  in  her  little  attic  lodging,  looking 
forward  to  those  pleasant  Sunday  trips  which  brought  a 
new  joy  into  her  existence.  His  companionship  and 
friendship  were  very  precious  to  this  lonely  girl  in 
London. 

One  glorious  hot  July  Sunday  which  they  spent 
near  Marlow-on-Thames  seemed  to  Sarah  Hopper  the 
happiest  day  of  her  life.  She  loved  him,  and  she  knew 
it.  He  loved  her  ;  and  had  often  told  her  so  ;  but 
more  than  that  had  never  passed  between  them.  It 
was  nearly  two  years  since  they  first  met,  during  which 
time  the  only  bright  hours  in  the  life  of  Number  II. 
on  the  Left  had  been  those  spent  in  Allan  Murray's 
company.  His  kindness  never  changed.  His  con- 
sideration for  her  seemed  to  Alwyn  delightful. 

On  that  sunny  afternoon  they  pulled  up  under  the 
willows  for  tea,  which  she  made  from  a  little  basket 
they  always  took  with  them.  They  were  sitting  chatting 
pleasantly,  watching  the  water-flies  buzzing  on  the 
stream,  throwing  an  occasional  bit  of  cake  to  a  swan, 
and  thoroughly  enjoying  that  delightful  sense  of  lazi- 
ness which  comes  upon  most  of  us  at  the  close  of  a 
hot  day,  when  seated  beneath  the  shady  trees  that 
overhang  the  river. 


"CHORUS   GIRL   NUMBER    II."        351 

He  took  her  hand,  and  played  with  it  absently  for 
a  while. 

"  Little  girl,"  he  said  at  last,  *'  this  cannot  go  on. 
I  love  you,  and  you  know  it ;  you  love  me,  and  I 
know  that  too  ;  but  do  you  love  me  sufficiently  to  give 
yourself  to  meV 

*'  I  don't  think  I  could  love  you  any  more,"  she 
replied,  "  however  hard  I  tried,  for  you  have  been  my 
good  angel  for  two  happy  years,  you  have  been  the  one 
bright  star  of  hope,  the  one  pleasant  thing  in  my  life. 
I  love  you,  /  iove  you,  I  love  you,"  she  murmured,  as 
she  leaned  forward  and  laid  her  cheek  upon  his  hand. 
He  felt  her  warm  breath  thrill  through  him. 

"  I  know  it,  dear,"  he  said,  and  a  sad  pained  look 
crossed  his  face  ;  "  but  what  I  want  to  know  is,  do  you 
care  for  me  sufficiently .''  " 

"  I  hardly  understand,"  she  answered,  frightened  she 
knew  not  why. 

"  Will  you  give  me  the  right  to  keep  you  in  luxury 
and  protect  you  from  harm  ?  " 

She  looked  up  anxiously,  there  was  something  in 
his  words  and  something  in  his  tone  she  did  not 
comprehend.  His  face  was  averted,  but  she  saw  how 
pale  and  haggard  he  looked. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  questioned,  turning  sick 
with  an  inexplicable  dread. 

"  Could  you  give  up  the  stage,  the  world  for  me  ^ 
Instead  of  being  your  frien4  I  would  be  your  slave." 

She  seemed  to  be  in  a  dream  ;  his  words  sounded 
strange,  his  halting  speech,  his  ashen  hue  denoted 
evil. 


352  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

"  Tell  me  what  you  mean,"  she  cried. 

"  Dearest,"  he  murmured,  and  then  words  seemed  to 
fail   him. 

"  But  ?  "  and  she  looked  him  through  and  through, 
a  terrible  suspicion  entering  her  soul,  "  but " 

"  But,"  he  replied,  turning  away  from  her,  "  you 
can  never  be   my  wife." 

"  Great  God  !  "  exclaimed  the  girl.  "  This  from  the 
one  friend  I  thought  I  had  on  earth,  from  the  one 
man  I  had  learned  to  love  and  respect.  Not  your 
wife.''"  she  repeated.  "Am  I  losing  my  senses  or  are 
you  : 

"  You  cannot  be  my  wife,"  he  reiterated  de- 
sperately. 

"  So  you  think  I  am  not  good  enough  ? "  she 
gasped  almost  hysterically.  "  It  is  true  I  am  only 
Number  II.  on  the  Left^  and  yet  I  was  born  a  lady. 
I  am  your  equal  in  social  standing,  and  no  breath  of 
scandal  has  ever  soiled  my  name.  You  have  made 
love  to  me  for  two  years,  you  have  vowed  you  love 
me,  and  now,  when  you  know  my  whole  heart  is  given 
to  you,  you  turn  round  and  coolly  say,  '  You  are  not 
good  enough  to  be  my  wife.'  " 

"  My  darling,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  and 
squeezing  her  fingers  until  the  blood  seemed  to  stand 
still  within  them,  "this  is  torture  to  me." 

"  And  what  do  you  suppose  it  is  to  me  ^  "  she 
retorted.  "  It  is  not  only  torture  but  insult.  You 
have  brought  me  to  this.  I  loved  you  so  intensely 
and  trusted  you  so  implicitly,  I  never  paused  to  think. 
1  have  lived  like  a  blind  fool  in  the  present,  happy 


<' CHORUS   GIRL   NUMBER   II."        353 

when  with  you,  dreaming  of  you  when  away,  drifting 
on,  on,  in  wild  Elysium,  hoping — yes,  hoping,  I  sup- 
pose— that  some  day  I  might  be  your  wife,  or  if  not  that, 
at  any  rate  that  I  could  still  continue  to  respect  myself 
and  respect  you.  To  think  that  you,  you,  whom  I 
trusted  so  much,  should  insult  me  like  this,"  and  she 
buried  her  face   in   her   hands  and  sobbed. 

"  My  darling,  I  cannot  marry,"  he  replied.  "  It 
is  not  your  position,  it  is  not  the  stage,  it  is  nothing 
to  do  with  you  that  makes  me  say  so.  Had  it  been 
possible  I  should  have  asked  you  to  be  my  wife  a 
year  ago  or  more,  but,  little  girl,  dearest  love,  how 
can  I  tell  you  ? "  and  almost  choking  with  emotion 
he  added,    "  /  am  a  married  man.'" 

She  left  his  side  and  staggered  to  the  other  end 
of  the  boat,  where,  throwing  herself  upon  the  cushions, 
she  wept  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"  Have  1  deserved  this,"  she  cried,  "  that  you 
in  smiling  guise  should  come  to  me  as  an  emblem 
of  happiness  ,''  You  have  stolen  my  love  from  me, 
and   oh,  your  poor,  poor,  wretched  wife  !  " 

She  was  a  good,  honest,  womanly  girl,  and  even 
in  her  own  anguish  of  heart  did  not  forget  she  was 
not  the  only  sufferer  from  such  treachery. 

In  a  torrent  of  words  he  told  her  how  he  had 
married  when  a  student  at  the  'Varsity — married 
beneath  him — how  his  life  had  ever  since  been  misery. 
How  the  pretty  girl-bride  had  developed  into  a 
vulgar  woman,  how  for  years  she  and  her  still  com- 
moner family  had  dogged  his  footsteps,  how  he  had 
paid  and  paid  to  be  rid  of  her,  how  his   whole   exis- 

23 


354  BEHIND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

tence  had  been  ruined  by  the  indiscretion  of  his  youth, 
and  the  wiles  of  the  designing  landlady's  daughter, 
how  he  had  never  felt  respect  and  love  for  woman 
until  he  had  met  her,  Number  II.  on  the  Left. 

It  was  a  tragic  moment  in  both  their  lives.  He 
felt  the  awful  sin  he  had  committed  in  not  telling 
her  from  the  first  that  he  could  never  marry.  He 
felt  the  injustice  of  it  all,  the  punishment  for  his  own 
folly  that  had  fallen  upon  him,  and  she,  poor  soul, 
not  only  realised  the  shock,  to  her  ideal,  but  the 
horrible  barrier  that  had  risen  between  them. 


They  travelled  up  to  town  together,  both  silent — 
each  feeling  that  all  the  world  was  changed.  They 
parted  at  Victoria — she  would  not  let  him  see  her 
home. 

The  idol  of  two  years  was  rudely  shattered,  the 
happy  dreams  of  life  had  suddenly  turned  to  miserable 
reality. 

He  returned  to  his  chambers,  where  he  cursed 
himself,  and  cursed  his  luck,  as  he  walked  up  and  down 
his  rooms  all  night,  and  realised  the  root  of  the  misery 
lay  in  the  deception  he  had  practised.  He,  whose 
life  had  been  ruined  by  the  deception  of  a  designing, 
low-class  minx,  had  himself  in  his  turn  committed 
the  selfsame  sin  of  misrepresentation.  The  thought 
was  maddening  ;  his  remorse  intense.  But  alack  !  the 
past  cannot  be  recalled,  and  the  curse  that  had  followed 
him  for  many  years  he  had,  alas !  cast  over  a  sinless 
girl. 


"CHORUS   GIRL   NUMBER   II."        jsS 

Sarah  Hopper  returned  to  her  cheap  little  lodging 
at  Islington,  for  after  two  years'  hard  work  her  salary 
was  still  only  30J.  a  week,  and  throwing  herself 
into  an  arm-chair,  she  sat  and  thought.  Her  head 
throbbed  as  if  it  would  burst,  her  eyes  seemed  on 
fire  as  she  reviewed  the  whole  story  from  every 
possible  side.  She  had  been  a  blind  fool  ;  she  had 
trusted  in  a  man  she  believed  a  good  man,  the  web 
of  fate  had  entangled  her,  and  this — this  was  the  end. 
She  could  never  see  him  again. 

By  morning  she  was  in  a  high  state  of  fever,  and 
when  the  landlady  came  to  her  later  in  the  day  she 
was  so  alarmed  at  her  appearance  she  sent  at  once 
for  the  doctor.     The  doctor  came. 

"  Mental  shock,"  he  said. 

Days  went  by  and  in  wild  delirium  the  little  chorus 
girl  lay  upon  her  bed  in  the  lodging,  till  one  night 
when  the  landlady  had  fallen  asleep  the  broken-hearted 
girl  managed  to  scramble  up,  and  getting  a  piece  of 
paper  and  an  envelope  wrote  : 

"  You  have  killed  me,  but  for  the  sake  of  the 
honest  love  of  those  two  years,  I  forgive  you 
all." 

She  addressed  it  in  a  firm  hand  to  Alan  Murray, 
and  crawling  back  into  bed  fell  asleep. 

A  few  hours  later  the  landlady  awoke  ;  all  was 
silent  in  the  room — so  silent,  in  fact,  that  she  began 
to  wonder.  The  wild  raving  had  ceased,  the  restless 
head  was  no  longer  tossing  about  on  the  pillow. 
Drawing  back  the  muslin  curtains  to  let  the  light 
of  early  morning — that  soft  gentle  light  of  a  summer's 


356  BEHIND   THE   FOOTLIGHTS 

day — pour    into    the    room,    she    went    across   to    the 
bed. 

The  kindly  old  woman  bent  over  the  broken-hearted 
girl  to  find  her  sleeping  peacefully — the  sleep  of 
death. 


Prilled  and  bound  by  Hazell,  Watson  cS"  Vinty,  Ld.,  London  and  AyUsbuty. 


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